Archive of Our Own

That third year, Sam celebrated his birthday by getting pretty damn drunk, alone, and planned on sleeping in, alone. Raphael had called earlier in the morning to wish him a happy, and ask if he was coming in the next day. Sam knew Raph had a pretty good idea what shape he was in—it only happened a couple of times a year, but when it did, it was epic.

"Yeah, unh…I'll be in tomorrow, Raph, unless you need me to be there today…?"

"Nah, how many people do we need on the store job? It's like two feet wide. We got it. See ya tomorrow, okay? Take care of y'self, boss."

"Thanks man. I appreciate you taking care of things."

"Hey, all part of my plan to take over the bizz."

Sam laughed and hung up. He lay back on the couch, held onto the edge of it to stop it spinning, tried not to think…three years. Hunting alone, then going back to school, dropping out again and…somehow or another ending up running a business….

Life was…horrible and mind-numbing and just fucking stupid. But he was under orders to live it so, here he was, living it. He sighed and threw his arm over his face, one long leg sweeping across the floor, one hand on the tile. The couch wasn't really long enough for him to stretch out on but he couldn't even imagine levering himself up and dragging his ass into the bedroom.

May second. Year number three.

Dean. Third year without Dean. *With* him, in the back of his mind always, a presence so constant that he had to cut all ties with any one who knew them both. It hurt too much to be reminded. Alone he could pretend that Dean was a dream, or that he really wasn't gone. He was off somewhere, hunting something and drinking too much some time, and flirting and fucking his way through tons of leggy blondes with soft accents and soft lips…Sam let out a long breath, and let it hitch a little on the way out. He cupped himself and sighed. So much stuff left unsaid, thank God he never let Dean know, never let him see….

Dean, happy, grinning from a motel window, thumbs up and two girls just dying to get to know him….

Sam cursed and shoved his hand down his pants and concentrated on the safe images at first, anonymous bodies, faces--and then just gave up and let his mind take him where it wanted to—in a motel shower, where Dean first pushed him against the wall and slid down his wet thighs, a shabby shotgun house in Georgia, hot humid air, wet sheets and a massage that ended up with his dick in Dean's throat—that time in Maine that he'd joined him in the shower and caught his come in his hand and a scream in his mouth…Sam came up off the couch with a shout ground out between clenched teeth, his hips straining upwards into his own hold.

He dropped down, panting, wiping his hand against his shirt. There it was, and he refused to feel guilt. Not one of those times had ever really happened so that made it okay, right? Hadn't happened…but not because he hadn’t wanted it. No, no, he didn’t mean that. Meant he didn’t want…shit. He couldn't keep his eyes open, he was drifting in and out of sleep and he couldn't keep his thoughts on track and—Sam sighed, yawned. Tomorrow it would be better, tomorrow was another day.

He was asleep before twelve.

Half way in the middle of the block, was a coffee house, Café Savant. A double line of granite topped tables ran the length of the store front. Since it was warm for a May morning, the tables were set, umbrellas up, and a little herd of well dressed young folk browsed there, coffees cooling and cell phones buzzing importantly.

Sitting comfortably among them was another well dressed young person, leather briefcase under the café table between his loafer shod feet, cell phone in front of his coffee cup, the day's paper folded next to it. His haircut was nowhere near as expensive or as artfully casual as that of the others around him, but he looked good in a light blue button down, and the corduroy jacket was definitely not his father's corduroy. He fit in, he looked prosperous, up and coming.

Except in about fifteen minutes, he was going to drive uptown, meet his crew at an apartment whose freaking rent was probably more than he made in half a year, get into a coverall, boots and respirator, snap latex gloves on and proceed to remove any sign that someone had been viciously, bloodily terminated there. He sipped his coffee and reflected that the more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

yeah, yeah…shut up.He tipped his head back and sighed, glanced around the little group of tables. Café Savant was his favorite pretentious coffee place. Always made him smile, imagining what Dean would think of this place. whatever this shit is you're drinking, it's not coffee.

He grinned to himself, gazed idly around, glimpsed the guy behind him and did a little take—damn it.

The guy was not one of the café's regulars, he was a big furry bear of a man—thick, that kind of muscle that looked like fat but was solid power. He had a short gray beard and looked like maybe his hair was pulled back in a pony tail. His tank top showed off tats and scars and more hair. He was slipping bits of cookie to an ill-tempered dog under his table. It looked a little like a sled dog. A grumpy sled dog. It lifted its lip and showed off crimson gums and ivory teeth. Twin blazes of furious green fire drilled into his eyes and Sam swallowed.

Right.

The guy smiled a little and scratched at the skin under the eye patch.

That really pissed Sam off.

Ever since he decided that no thanks, he'd rather not lead all the armies of hell, he'd been…stalked? Bugged? Gathered an otherworldly assortment of groupies? It seemed lately he couldn't walk to the corner without tripping over some supernatural someone, from heavy-hitters to hangers-on, they were there. Like that guy at the table behind him trying to pretend but not very hard that he wasn't the All Father.

That asshole Thunder God son of his cut him off in the mini-mart yesterday. Like he wouldn't recognize him…recognize that he didn't really belong….

Sam grabbed calm from somewhere and went on drinking his coffee, acted like everything was normal and only jumped a little when his phone piped out "Roadhouse Blues" as it chattered against the stone table top.

"Winchester Trauma Care--Oh, hey Dana." Sam frowned as his office manager caught him up to speed on the day so far. "All right—good. I'll be in later. Raph says he's got a small job—okay. Good." Raphael had the job squared away, the crew was back clearing up the paperwork and Dana of course was on top of things, as always—making sure the waste was taken care of, making sure appointments were nailed down, and lately, that their coupon was in the local papers…Sam frowned more. The coupon thing he found kind of gross for some reason but hey, she knew what she was doing. They were making a living, after all.

Building the crime scene clean-up business had given him some direction after giving up--everything. Again. New York was as far as he could imagine getting from Cali and Kansas. Plus what he was doing was beneficial, helping people. It was something he knew a hell of a lot about--something that hunting had prepared him for quite nicely.

Now, if only the outworlders would just get the hint that he was retired from all that shit and leave him the hell alone.

Hey.

Sam sighed and rolled his eyes. "Yes?" He tried to keep annoyance out of his voice….

You know, if you'd just listen to me, the world would be so much brighter. There's so much we could accomplish. Anyway you want it.

"I don't want it, your lordship," he said and the metal chair screeched as he shoved it back and stood. People looked, looked away quickly again when they meet his eyes. Good.

He dropped some money on the table, grabbed the briefcase and phone and tried to walk away. He wondered sometimes what the other people around him saw, heard. No one ever freaked or eyeballed him in that…certain way. God knows he knew that look….

Sam tilted his head, squinted his eyes, stared at the blue man at his side and just about made out a sort of wavering image pasted over the blue nearly naked four armed man. He saw what everyone else was supposedly seeing--a tall, coffee colored man with a neat trimmed mustache and beautiful brown eyes, impeccably dressed and carrying a metal briefcase…hot. But not what he was looking for. "Thanks for the offer anyway."

Well, one day you'll be bored and tired of waiting and then… He sighed and shrugged and with four arms it was quite a show. Your brother is gone—forever, Samuel.

And at this point, when they said…stuff like that…it was always set off a little niggling doubt and he wondered if maybe instead of him standing in the doorway between worlds, as it were, he was just completely fucking nuts. He glanced behind himself and the bear was grinning at him. Yah.

He shook his head and went to meet the family that needed his help.

The address was in a section of town homes, older, good shape—made of money. He straightened his jacket, fixed a sympathetic smile on his face and ran fingers through his hair. 'Bout time for a haircut, Sammy? You're lookin' more an' more like a princess every day…or a yeti.

"Shut the fuck up Dean," he muttered and knocked on the door.

The family—what was left-- was distraught, thrown into some horrendous sideways world they were trapped in and Sam could see that what they really wanted was for him to assure them that it was going to be different tomorrow, tomorrow they'd find out that all this was a horrible, tasteless, practical joke. Sam listened, nodded, murmured reassuringly, and all the while he could feel his nose wrinkling…he could smell rot taking hold. The husband was wide eyed and too, too calm. He looked polished--both he and his wife were well dressed, perfectly groomed and looked as if they were about to shatter into a million screaming pieces.

Sam quickly reviewed what he knew in his head. The daughter and the husband's brother were dead, former by strangulation and the latter by a gunshot to the head, self inflicted. It was a nasty story, but not all that rare, he found. He grimaced faintly. He hadn't given up hunting monsters at all….

"We think…we're going to leave. Until…until the…it's cleaned. I guess I'm not handling…this well," the father of the dead girl said, and Sam winced. The poor guy felt he had to apologize for wanting to get out of the ruins of his home? The mother just sobbed into her handkerchief.

"I just feel like…like…she's here. I—I feel her touching me. My baby." She cried harder and the husband bent his head over his wife's and breathed deeply and unsteadily.

Sam was about to excuse himself and give the couple a bit of privacy, when an unwelcome but familiar sensation stung him—a feeling as if electric sparks were shooting down his arms and out the tips of his fingers. He blinked hard, tried not to lose the calm, soothing tone, the sympathetic expression. "Stress can cause physical reactions like that," he said, as goose-bumps pimpled his arms. He said to the husband, "If you and your wife decide to leave the house overnight we can work straight through, my team and I. We'll need to take up the carpet, and--" He thought of the pink room, splashed black and red. "The curtains, the bed…they'll all need to go."

The husband stood. "Do what you have to."

They didn't want a catalogue of what their child had endured. Sam felt a low level buzz of energy flow over his skin and looked toward the bedroom. A young girl stood in the doorway, staring at him. Not violent. Not yet. Resentful. Maybe a little angry. Confused.

He might be able to talk to her--he hoped so. He blinked, and she was gone.

Raphael, Cassandra and Danny were with Sam when he came back that evening. He unlocked the door and the crew started to set up. Raph dropped a couple of plastic bag lined boxes in the hallway, and plugged in fans behind them. Cass and Danny were togged out and ready to go, carpet knives in hand.

Raph and Sam stripped the bed, and threw the linens on the floor for Cass to pack in boxes—they wrapped the mattress in plastic, wrapped a lavender boudoir chair, soaked in blood and dotted with bits of dead human, in plastic too before moving it….

The crew worked straight through, and a little after ten, he took a break--figured he'd send everyone home.

When Sam found him and told him the crew could leave, Raph said, "Gay Danny and Cass are loading the smaller stuff in the truck now. I plugged in the ozone machine…I guess we're pretty much done. You gonna be okay?" He looked at Sam significantly, glancing around the mostly empty pink and white room…the formally pink and white room. "I can stay and get the little areas with you."

Sam rubbed the back of his head and grimaced. "Nah--I'm okay, Raph." See, what I'm gonna do now is talk to a little girl ghost and try to get her to realize she can move on. Failing that, I'll be sneaking into a metropolitan graveyard later tonight and basically vandalizing her grave. He glanced away and the little girl in question was sitting on the floor where her bed had been. "And damn it, stop calling the kid Gay Danny."

"But he *is* gay." Raph shivered. "Dang, it's freezing ass cold in here…shit. You know, some of these jobs really give me the creeps. Most of them, not too bad--I mean, you know what I mean--but every once in a while, dude, my skin crawls an' I feel like someone's *watching* me--like now."

Danny leaned around the doorway, his hood down and a respirator in his hand. Dark brown hair stood up in sweat damp spikes all over his head, and a long finger poked wire rimmed glasses back up the bridge of his thin nose. "Cass and I've got the truck loaded, Sam. We're leaving?"

Raph raised eyebrows, Sam waved them off. "You're leaving. Go, relax, I'll catch a cab home…"

He watched the crew leave from the bedroom window, wondered if maybe…maybe he should have a heart to heart with Raphael before he freaked completely. Explain the realities of the unseen world. Or maybe just recommend the poor guy find other employment.

It was really late, or really *really* early depending on the viewpoint. Weak yellow sunlight poured through the windows and made grids stretch across the clean, clean floor. Sam sat cross-legged on the floor, and even though he spoke as softly as he could, his voice echoed oddly in the nearly empty room. The little girl he'd seen standing in the doorway the night before was curled in his lap, silently listening to him as he rocked back and forth, cradling her in his arms, and talking….

Finally, she understood there was somewhere else to go--maybe, somewhere better. She lay her head on his chest, took a deep breath and let go.

A sweet wave of warm content washed through him and a bright light filled his eyes, blinded him for a moment and when he opened them again he was alone. He thought about it briefly, how very not afraid she'd looked right before the light and wondered…but only for a brief few seconds before he swallowed hard. He was *not* about to ask why again. He'd spent a whole mother fucking year asking why. It wasn't like he'd gotten any kind of answer. He got stiffly to his feet, staggered a second before stretching with a groan, grimaced when his neck popped. His life was not kind to his body….

Coffee. That's what he needed. A huge fucking cup of coffee and maybe a bun, stuffed with nuts and raisins and dripping with sugar…he shuddered.

On the way back to his apartment, he found himself walking with a short, dark skinned man in a red and black hat who came out of nowhere and smiled a lot and twirled a cane with a white rabbit's head on. Sam kept his eyes straight ahead, as though the sidewalk was the most fascinating damn thing in the world, but couldn't help watching the guy from the corner of his eyes—excellent peripheral vision was sort of a gift and a curse. He caught that the dude was asking something, going on about Sam having lost something, something he'd be happy to help him get back…it was an original spiel this--Sam actually stopped and looked at this guy. He gestured with the hand holding the bakery bag. "Lost something? Really? What have I lost?"

Just saying, I might be able to help you get it back.

"And why? What's in it for you? 'Cause--" he spread his arms wide, bag swinging in his fist and coffee sloshing in the cup, "--isn't this kind of what you wanted?"

The little man laughed. Oh, not me Samuel. I'm just offering some help. Thought I heard you asking.

"You know what? You were wrong, okay? I'm done with asking—I did all the asking I could stomach. There's nothing anyone can do, so please--leave me alone. I wish you *all* would just leave me alone."

Really? Are you sure you truly want that? Deep inside, with all of you, you want us to go? Take away any kind of chance you might have had to get your brother back?

"We both know what it would take to get him back, and no. I'm not doing that. I *have* to believe that Dean would rather…I know Dean wouldn't want that. I *know* it."

The little man chuckled. I see you tryin' hard to believe that. Okay. I like you Samuel; you're a pretty good boy. I'll give you one chance for happiness. The little man imitated Sam, threw his arms wide and smiled magnanimously. Free of charge.

Sam looked at him, lips pressed tight; eyes narrowed and let the thought tick over in his head that he was fucking damn tired of being the universe's chew toy. "One cha--what the fuck does that mean? What're you, my fairy godfather?"

The little man laughed. Hey, fairies are no joke man. I told you, I like you.

They were in front of his apartment building now and Sam was startled that he'd made it home without noticing…he trotted up the stoop and was fumbling for his door keys when he thought of something and turned to snap at the little man and he was gone.

Of course.

Swear to God he wished these fuckers would leave him the hell alone. He gulped coffee that wasn't quite hot enough anymore, kicked the door shut behind him and tossed his keys at the kitchen table. Dropped down onto the couch that was a little too low to be really comfortable for him and methodically chewed his way through a sweet roll he didn’t even actually like that much, just…felt he should want it. He was sucking sticky sugar off his fingers when the wave of yearning hit him like it always did. He closed his eyes and rode it out and was thankful time had softened it from a mule kick straight to the heart to a rolling mutter of unease under his ribcage. Dean.

He hated moments like that. It helped to imagine Dean leaning over the couch and smacking the back of his head--accusing him of being a big girl. dude, you *are* a big fuckin' girl—no, I mean big fugly girl. Suck it up, bitch.

He ran a shower, and washed with a lilac soap that was the only thing that helped to squelch the smell that clung to his skin and hair even hours after being at some scenes. He wrapped himself in a towel, and brushed even the faintest taste of sweet roll out of his mouth. He lay down on the bed, and thankfully began to drift off, felt also the tiniest bit of satisfaction that he hadn't needed to…think of Dean to fall asleep….

'Hey. Hey, stop making me do all the work, hunh—spread your legs willya?'

Wide strong hands stroked down his back, fingers nudged at his hole, rolled over it and he surged up and shook. 'Stop playing around, jerk, come on—do it.'

'Oh yeah?' and a finger tip slid into him and he cried out it felt so good, 'that's more like it, more of that'.…

The alarm went off with a yowl, and Sam smacked it quiet. He blinked, and stretched, feeling pretty good. Must be his body's way of telling him hey, even Winchesters have to sleep some time. He didn't wake up grinning that often--must have had a pretty good dream.

Sam swept folders aside and cleared a little space on the desk. He'd been on the phone pretty much all day long and he was beat. He sighed, and dropped his head onto his arms. He ignored Dana's look, concentrated on breathing evenly and not…screaming into the wood grained Formica.

God, he needed to get out. The routine--work, sleep, work, sleep…fuck. It was almost as bad as the three months he was never ever going to forget. He was turning into a Sambot without even trying, just…minus the hospital corners. Maybe he should…what the hell. What he needed was to get laid, pure and simple. Casual sex, that's what he needed. He snorted against his desktop and papers fluttered. Since when was sex ever casual for him?

"Is the boss dead, Miss Dana? Did you kill him?" Raphael leaned over him and lifted an eyelid. "Hey. You still in there? 'cause I'll let Gay Danny tap your dead ass if you aren't."

"Oh my God, shut the fuck up."

Sam laughed out loud at the outrage in Danny's voice. He shook Raph off of him and lifted his head. "Could you at least try to respect my personal space? Even if I'm dead, okay?" He looked over at Danny. "I apologize for this terrible person."

Danny blushed bright red and tossed the folder he held on Dana's desk. "It's okay—he can't help it if he's a giant homophobic jerk." Danny grabbed his jacket and left.

"Did you just make my most valuable employee leave in a snit?"

Raph plopped down in a chair and fished around in the bowl of M&Ms on Sam's desk, pulled out a massive handful. "Heck no, I'm sitting right here." He munched on them grinning and said, "He's got a big ass crush on you, you know. It's kinda cute. Hey Boss." Raph looked at him critically. "You know what; you need to get laid—"

"Oh my God—"

"I'm just trying to look out for you, you know? I can see it, I recognize the look. Not that I know what that feels like myself but…anyway, who's going to look out for you if I don't? Miss Dana don’t love you, she just wants your money." He popped another few dozen pieces in his mouth and chewed reflectively. "That does kind of make her your office wife, hunh?"

"Can’t you fire him?" she asked. "Please."

"Nah—he can't, I know where the bodies are buried." Raph got up from his perch on Sam's desk and winked. "See everybody bright and early since Scrooge Face say we gotta work Saturday. Donuts his treat. Remember what I said," he directed at Sam.

"Okay, okay…" Sam shook his head--it was weird. Aside from being short, dark, and built a little like a fireplug, Raph reminded him so much of Dean…and did he really say that Danny had a crush on him? "Oh crap…."

The club was packed, and big crowds in small places still made him uneasy—no room to draw comfortably. He slipped through gyrating bodies, automatically scoping the exits, scanning faces, feeling for impressions, the way he'd been trained to…at least he'd stopped muttering Latin aloud—surprisingly, it tended to put guys off. He rolled his shoulders and tried to look a little less obsessed psycho-killer and a little more young businessman-friendly. He pushed his way towards the bar—he'd need to get pretty much shit faced for that to work for him….

Music pounded against him almost like a physical thing, vibrated under his skin and moved his hips, and currently his hips were firmly pressed against a nice ass. He shook wet hair back from his eyes and moved to the beat, laughed softly when the guy plastered against his chest groaned. Sam swept his hands up the guy's waist, pressed them against his chest. Pinched nipples—hard. He got a gasp in response, a grind against his overheated dick. He dropped his head and whispered into the shaggy hair, "Let's move," licked a stripe across a salty wet cheek…

In the alley, he groaned and shivered as quick hands undid his belt, unzipped him, and the guy kissed his way down the bulge of cotton covered dick. A cool tongue twisted over his hot, hot skin, leaving slick trails against his belly. His head dropped back against the wall and he ignored the quick burst of pain…the tongue moved slowly lower, lower until Sam growled, shoved thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and yanked them down. "Stop fucking around and suck me damn it. Please." He could feel little bursts of cool air skate over his skin as the other snickered and then took pity on him--Sam hissed, feeling the hot wet plunge on him, every muscle fluttered and he spread his legs wide as he could. Warm fingers stroked his balls, squeezed lightly before going back, up, and a finger danced around his hole. "Good, yeah," He wasn't thinking about anything but this. This was all he needed. A willing mouth sucking him, a hot tongue sliding around him, nothing else…not Dean. Not Dean at all, not touching him, laughing into his neck, wrapping his broad strong hand around his twitching dick, and tugging. Fucking his mouth, gasping against the wet skin of his throat, hitching Sam's legs around his hips and plunging in—"Unh!"

He pushed the guy off. "Wait." He turned and put his hands against the gritty wall, keeping them high over his head. He rasped, "If you haven't got one, there's one in my pocket."

His legs were spread far as he could, and then he felt the blunt hot nudge, a slick slide and push over his hole that made him bend and moan, a nudge, a gasp and his stomach jumped and fluttered when the head popped in…a steady slide in that made his gut clench, burning, stretching, and almost shockingly quick, morphing into pleasure, a deep burn that turned to a flood of heat, and then…

"Aaah…" His head dropped between his outstretched arms and his mouth was open wide in a silent scream—he felt every bit of that dick slide in, out, and hot hands gripped his hips hard the way he liked. He pushed back, faster, harder, sparks blew through him, though his gut...he could tell the guy was on edge and now he was grinding, trying to shove everything he could inside of him. "Fuck. Fuck…" he reached between his legs and jerked off hard and fast, when he came it hit him like a bomb—

"Boss, you there? Boss?" Sam rolled over, hissed when a sharp swift stab of pain shot through him from ass to chest, settled into a dull ache. "Sam? You there?"

His head was spinning and he couldn't remember where the answering machine was--Sam sat up and scrubbed at his face…why the fuck did Raph sound so worried? What the hell…he glanced at the clock and groaned. Well shit, that explained it…he was so fucking late.

He stretched, grimaced as the ache thumped him once or twice.

See? Serves you right…unfaithful bastard…

"Shut the fuck up, Dean," he muttered. He dragged himself out of bed and headed for the shower, bending to grab up the clothes he'd dropped on the floor. They stank of booze and smoke and…he held them away from him bare skin…vomit. "Ech."

A shower and a thorough tooth brushing later and he felt a little more human. He padded over to the phone and dialed Raph.

"Damn, you didn't call to let us know you were going to be late, Gay Danny was worried. Me too," he mumbled quickly. "But…you got laid, hunh?" Raph blew out a little breath.

Sam dropped down on the couch and stared at the ceiling. "Ah…I didn’t know consulting you was something I was supposed to do. And you do know I'm gay too, don’t you?"

"Yeah?" Raph responded, a world of puzzlement in that one word.

"You…Danny…never mind. What's on the table today?"

"Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. No blood and guts today. And Miss Dana wants to talk about a radio spot."

"What? No! Raph—no."

"It's not that bad an idea; we can do it respectfully—"

"Raph, *no*. Tell her I said we're sticking to paper ads, okay? Damn." His eyeballs felt like they were coated in grit, his face felt three sizes too small. "Shit. I've got a headache that could kill a normal man."

"Yeah, 'cause only I know in reality, you're Superman. Say, does that make me Batman?"

"*No*--no. I'll be in to work in an hour."

It'd been another long day at the office, a stressful day revolving around paperwork that seemed endless, talking to clients, setting up a contract with a new medical waste company that seemed to go on and on and on…he was beat. His head was pounding, his stomach was a little queasy and he really had no desire to cook, so—take out for the fifth time this week. His gut was probably going to mutiny if he didn't eat real food pretty soon. He had a bag of egg rolls and fried rice clutched in his teeth, trying hard not to drool all over it, and a tub of sweet tea clutched in the hand that wasn't trying to jam door keys in the lock. He couldn't wait to get inside, rip the tie and jacket off and get comfortable. It was exhausting being Mr. Sympathetic. Sure, he was good at it, that's why Dean had always pushed him to the front when it came to dealing with the bereaved, the scared, the—the grumpy. Dean always looked good in the suits though, Sam thought. And anyway, it was Dean's face that got the doors opened for them….

He was stretched out on the sofa, licking egg roll grease from his hands, wiping them on the disreputable sweats he was wearing. He flicked the TV off with a sigh and grabbed a book from under the coffee table. He was about to settle in, and read himself to sleep but his skin buzzed, and his brain itched…sleep wasn't going to happen.

Visitors were a pain in the ass.

"Sam."

"Jesus. What do *you* want?"

Ruby winced—quickly wrapped a long strand of red hair around her finger and smiled sweetly. "Now is that any way to say hello? Especially since I come bearing good news. About your brother, remember him? Well, not exactly about him, so much as—unk."

His hand was around her neck before he was even aware that he'd moved. It shocked him for a quick second, as much as it shocked her but he tightened his hand and growled, "Get out. Now. Unless you really have something…." He knew that it wasn't just the hand around her neck that stopped her moving. He felt the energy bleed across his skin as he concentrated…she floated up from the couch, barely an inch, but her eyes grew large and frightened. She nodded and managed a small squeak. He eased his grip. "What?" he said, his voice was so flat and emotionless he hardly recognized it.

"I--I know someone who can help you…find a way in. To hell," she rasped.

"You're lying. You lied to us the whole time before and now, three years later you want to show up out of nowhere and lie again? Fuck you." He stood, and she shied back—caught herself and smirked.

"Well, you can whine about the past or you can do something now. You decided you didn’t need any help. Fine. But you were looking in the wrong places. That's why it didn't work. Stupid."

"I can kill you with the power of my mind, you know…"

She laughed as if he told a joke. "Here. You have three days to decide if you want help or not. The window closes after that." She had a small pale green card in her hand. It had a deckled edge, small neat lettering and a rabbit printed in the bottom right corner.

"What's this? Who is this?"

"They'll tell you every thing you need to know, if you go. If you want your brother back." She glanced at him, and away before speaking again. "Believe it or not, I did try. I guess these last couple of years have been…bad?" she said, and Sam was surprised—she looked as sympathetic as he guessed her kind was capable of, and it kind of lessened his desire to kill her. Kind of....

"They've…" how could he explain to someone like Ruby that they were and they weren't? He missed Dean every day with a fierce kind of longing, pain that never ever went away…but sometimes he'd find himself laughing--a real laugh--or smiling for no other reason except the sun felt warm, or the air was crisp, or the taste of ice cream or…or pie…made him feel good. He's made friends, and created a kind of family and…that was *traitorous*.

And it was wrong. Not when he *knew*, not when he should feel at all moments of the day, all the time, that his brother was suffering.

After Ruby left, he gave some thought to laying down salt lines, something he hadn't done since--in years. Not that he was suicidal, not that he didn't care. It was just…after everything, after the hellhounds, after Lilith…no one came after him, or tried to hurt him, or talk to him. Nothing. Demons avoided him. He'd seen *plenty* of supernatural beings since Dean's death. He was practically tripping over them, but not the possessed, not the demonic. None of the supernatural beings he saw now wanted him dead and almost all of them seemed to want some kind of…acknowledgement. Like Sam noticing them would somehow reaffirm their existence.

Sam worried from time to time that out in the bushes somewhere some little god was waiting for him to believe in it. Or that somewhere, a unicorn really was shitting rainbows….

Sam was just washing up when the doorbell rang. Toothbrush still in his cheek, he went to get it, wiping his hands on the back of his sweats. Raphael was at the door, takeout boxes in his hands.

"Hey. This box has pancakes, bacon and eggs, this box some toast and some oatmeal. Guess which one is yours?"

"Fanks. Pud onna tabu." Seriously, he was going to start eating real food again—this week--next week, he promised himself. No more gray veggies swimming in grease, swear.

Raph grimaced as he dropped the boxes on the kitchen table. "Tha's nasty. You gotta walk around with toothpaste and shit oozin out your mouth?" He ignored Sam's indignant snort and said, "So. Why'd you call me?" Raph grabbed a chair and the greasiest box and snagged a couple of slices of bacon. "What's up? Hey, you're gonna reimburse me for the food, right?"

"'Course. Wait." Sam trotted back to the bathroom, spit and rinsed, and walked back out to the kitchen. "Here's the thing. I'm going to take a few days off…maybe more but three days this week for sure. I…gotta line on where my brother might be." He flushed deep and turned his head. "I uh…he's been missing. I have to check it out…"

Raph stopped chewing and shoved one of the huge take out cups of coffee over to Sam. "Oh, sorry dude--he's got problems? Lots of folks I know got some family member onna street. You going to try and get him help? You know, both me and Ga—Danny--worked with those folks at one time or another. Hard work." He shook his head. "Tough going. But if he's anything like you at all, he'll make it--if he's got you to back him up."

"Yeah…I hope so." Sam stared at the cup. "One thing about…my brother, he's tough."

Raph patted his arm. "You'll make it happen man. You got success written all over you."

Three days later he was standing outside alone on the sidewalk in a part of town that would probably even make Luke Cage nervous, looking up at the grimy art deco facade of a building that called itself Crossroads Hotel in sputtering red neon letters. He glanced down at the pale green card Ruby had given him, drew it through his fingers. Okay, this was the place…was he supposed to summon someone, or something, or just wait until someone took pity on him? At this point he had no idea what to do. He glanced up and down the street, jiggling a little. The weight at the back of his waistband gave him a little sense of relief. He hadn't carried Dean's Colt in over two years and now, its weight comforted him, like he'd never stopped carrying it.

"It is a crossroads, you know—symbolic now, but had been truly a few hundred years ago."

"Son of a bitch!" Sam whirled around and found himself eye to eye with a light skinned Black man, thin as a reed--beautiful green eyes and a lovely smile. The guy had come up on him silent as a ghost. He could feel a tickling wash of energy flow over his skin and forced his hand away from the small of his back--this must be his 'date'. "Who are you?"

He held his hands up and smiled. "A friend. You been offered something, right? So tell me, you're going to take the gift?"

"Yee-ss…depending on what I have to do. These last couple of years have taught me there's no such thing as a free lunch, so I'm asking you, what's my price?"

"Come on inside, and I'll tell you. If you don’t want it, you can leave again, no strings."

Right. There were always strings.

Inside the hotel room, it was dim and hot. Drapes that were fashionable in his mother's mother's time hung over the windows blocking out light and any possibility of air. There was a bed shoved against one wall, and a little table—a night stand, set up like an altar. Sam only caught a glimpse but he was certain of its function, and certain the person he was talking to, attractive as he was, was *not* human, or strictly speaking a demon… a crossroads spirit but…not. A trickster but not like one they'd dealt with before. This wasn't a Norse or Native American trickster…maybe African? There were little scattered heaps of white in each corner of the room, looked like ash or salt….

So this was someone who would help him--maybe. Hard to tell. Tricksters were capricious, especially when they figured you needed a lesson. Fuck that. He'd had his lesson—it's why he was where he was now, damn it and not out killing his way across the country.

The man sat on the bed, leaned back on his elbows and checked Sam out so thoroughly, he felt more exposed than if he'd been naked. He flushed and stuck his hands in his pockets to keep from covering his dick. "Esu…that's what you can call me," the being said. He smiled, green eyes sparkling. "This is the whole of it—you get what you get. There's no sure thing here--that you need to understand. If you keep what you want in your heart, and you hold on to that desire, no matter what…it's possible to have it."

Sam frowned. That was entirely too…Disney-ish a way of looking at things. It didn't ring completely true, Sam thought. Probably mostly bullshit, except for the no sure thing bit. That he had no trouble believing…he stared at the being, trying to read it's—his--blandly smiling face. "How—what do you get out of this?"

"Maybe I like to bank good will. Maybe, some day I call on you to do a favor for me. Or maybe I don't." he shrugged. "Maybe one day a friend will come to you. Or never."

Sam jammed his hands deeper into his pockets, balled them into fists. fucking demi-gods… "So what does all that babbling mean? What kind of favor? Because I won't…won't hurt anyone. I *mean* it."

"Now why would I want you to hurt anyone, pretty little Sammy?"

Sam looked him up and down and thought maybe there needed to be further clarification. "I won’t let *myself* be hurt, either."

Esu laughed lightly and it sounded…the way champagne felt in your mouth. "Smart boy, you are. Look here—" he slid off the bed and walked to the little altar. Near it on the floor was a kid's plastic sand bucket, half full of water. Esu handed it to Sam and said, "Wash the doorway, and the window ledge. Protection."

Sam took the little bucket and surreptitiously sniffed. He could smell basil, and ginger, and there were bits of other plants, some he recognized, some not, but nothing that looked especially wrong. He was handed a bandana, and he dipped it in the bucket, quickly but thoroughly wiped all edges of the doorway and the single window in the room. He was a hunter, he knew damn well not to take protection lightly. Esu waited for him at the altar and talked him through what to do—put his gun in the center of the table, which he did with reluctance, pour oil into a brass plate set atop a brazier, and rub different herbs into it…he carved the name of what it was he wanted into a fat red candle, lit it as he listened to the voice in his ear gently telling him what to do, so smooth, so soothing. Warm thin fingers rubbed his temples in rhythm with the rise and fall of the softly spoken words. Sam tried not to lean into the comfortable warmth at his back, repeated what he was told to say. Together they repeated the words of power. The smell of burning wax and herbs, the thick greasy scent of the oil filled his nose, and his mouth and even seemed to fill his eyes but it wasn't exactly unpleasant…he gave into the movement he was being coaxed into, gentle, steady rocking back and forth…strangely he got a strong feeling of Bobby…as if he was there with him. Sam smiled and relaxed, his mind drifted loose even as his mouth moved and his body swayed….

He was back in Bobby's backyard, half asleep in the deep funky heat of the backseat of some junker, listening to Dean tell him a story, some lie about a girl and some pie and…he inhaled deeply, breathed in the taste, the smell of grease and hot metal, sweat and young bodies and hot vinyl seats, felt them slide under his sweaty thighs. A warm callused palm ghosted over his ribs, and he felt hot breath on his throat…he blinked.

He was alone in a junkyard. Bobby's, but not really Bobby's place, it was the place drawn by a kid, and forced into life. He slid out of the car, heat pounding him like a bitch. He looked around at the slightly blurry landscape. Sweat ran into his eyes and he blinked against the sting, the edges of his vision shivered into reality. Home. Or as close as to a home they'd ever had.

Sam slowly wheeled about, disoriented, confused. Okay…he'd been in the hotel room and…and things happened. He squinted against the odd light. If he concentrated really hard, he remembered everything but it was tiring and…unh, wait….

*Hell* was Bobby's yard? He grimaced. Yeah. Yeah, it sure as hell *had* been from time to time…he'd been so confused back then, only half aware of what he was yearning for. Remembered not being able to drag his eyes away from Dean, working on some car, shirtless and sweating…just…he remembered being miserable and half hard all summer long…Shit. He shook his head, trying to focus. Why was this shit coming out now, when he'd managed to crush it almost to death….

Hell. Sam looked behind him up the road to where he figured the house was, but instinct told him to go forward so he took off down the road. All around him it was dusty, hot, and silent as the grave. It was so quiet he could hear the soles of his boots slap against the blacktop. So quiet, so still, that he startled violently when crows flew out of tree branches hanging over the road—black and silent as a shadow play. At the same time, the air changed, seemed to drag at him, all color leeched out of the landscape. The sun was a nasty mustard yellow and the sky a pale grey-green….

He walked and walked; the road changed from blacktop to gravel and then to reddish dust…a dusty road spinning out in front of him forever. It felt like hours passed and every bit of moisture in his mouth, his eyes, his nose, was being slowly sucked out of him and replaced with the thick red dust he was dragging his ass through. The smear of yellow in the sky he assumed was the sun never moved—he had no way to tell how long he walked. He trudged on the road because he was afraid to stop and it was fucking obvious he wasn't going to see the interstate and he really hoped he wasn't going to die on this road. A sharp stab of fear pierced him—or what if. What if he never stopped walking? He swore his eardrums were fluttering, so fucking quiet that he could hear them do so. He heard his own pulse; maybe he was even hearing his heartbeat. It was *too* fucking quiet. He opened his mouth to sing or shout or something, and stopped. He gulped, his dry tongue tried to slide across chapped lips. He was afraid to try. What if he did and no sound came out, or if it did and it was too much?

How could lack of sound make him shred away like this?

Stop it—keep walking, concentrate on Dean--you hold on to that desire, no matter what……

He was so fucked up he really wanted to cry, and feeling like the worst kind of pussy for it, when he heard a slap-slap sound he recognized immediately—hell, his whole body almost seized up, it knew what that sound meant and every cell screamed for it—water.

He was running, big feet throwing up clouds of red dust, and slowly silence gave way. He began to hear his breath whistle in his chest--the thump of his feet against the thick dust, and then the faint grunts running forced out of him, the clack of dead tree branches in the dry, dry wind and far off in the distance, the barking of dogs. The sound at first was calming, normal—dogs. God, they sounded good--a familiar homey kind of sound that slowly changed, became more like howling, and slowly twisted into otherworldly shrieking.

The sound was coming closer, coming up on his back and he tried pretty damn hard to rip out a reserve his body didn't have to give. He heard a deep liquid snuffle next to him, a low sort of groan. He glanced to his side as he ran and saw he was being paced by long thin white dogs. He thought first ghostly greyhounds and giggled with what breath he had, until one turned its head toward him. A long thin bone shell held twin deep pits of what should have been blackness but was red like blood. Black nostrils flared wide at the end of a tube split by a red gash, filled with sharp neat teeth--a mouth full of bone scalpels and teeth like those had ripped Dean's heart out of his chest and eaten it while it still beat. A strip of raw red meat slipped from between open jaws and swiped the length of it. It pulled its tongue back in with a slurp.
Sam thought that maybe it even laughed at him a little, knew who he was….

Hellhounds were even uglier than he thought they'd be—these things were the last thing on Earth Dean had ever seen.

He stopped running.

He took a step forward, off the road and onto a dock. An average looking, non-magical, very mundane sort of dock, wood black with age and mold. A boat was tied off at the end, an entirely ridiculous looking figure standing in it.

"You've got to be kidding," Sam muttered. The hellhounds flopped in the road, rolled in the dust and in general made themselves comfortable…watching. Grinning. Sam was now absolutely positive that they were laughing at him, at some big joke about to unfold, evil boney bastards. He flipped them off and grinned himself—some instinct told him he was safe from them--as long as he was on the dock, he knew somehow he was untouchable.

The boat was gently moving in the black water and the tall robed figure waved him impatiently aboard. It looked a lot like a cartoon version of death with a long black oar held in one hand instead of a scythe but the hand it held out to steady Sam into the boat, while pale and boney, wasn't skeletal.. It wasn't right that the creature looked like Death in an old movie he'd watched with his brother once. "Dude," Sam whispered "You sunk my battleship…."

Have you no pennies, passenger? How will you pay your fare? Will you wander the shore for a hundred years?

Sam's heart seized. Fuck!Of course…of course a fare had to be paid. Fucking hell, Esu hadn't warned him--how was he going to…?

The creature flapped its boney arms, the somewhat ragged sleeves belling and shedding dust…Kidding, kidding, bro--your passage is paid. Chill.

Chill?Sam squinted at the thing, trying to make it disappear or change because it was abundantly obvious to him that this whole thing was taking place in his mind. Supernatural figures, demigods and servants of the gods did not say chill.

Did they?

Bright green eyes searched his, glittering out of the deep black pools of their sockets. It grinned again. Paid, dude. But passage is not easy. No doubt you know the rules, don’t look left or right, don’t look down, and don’t look up. Don’t touch anything but the boat; don't talk to anyone outside of the boat. Don’t ever, ever look behind. Don’t ask any questions.

"But what am I--" Sam started and the thing rolled its eyes and sneered.

What did I say? No questions, starting-- it stopped for a dramatic pause and continued. --now.

Sam bit his lip. This was…so fucked up and crazy, it *had* to be taking place in his mind. Like an untried idiot, he'd gone in pretty much blind and too fucking trusting—had been given some bogie version of a roofie and right now the thing was probably having all kinds of awful and probably fatal fun with his body.

The boat moved, and he lurched trying to keep balance and not tumble into the gluey looking black water....

God. He was going to be found dead in a hotel room with an empty rum bottle shoved up his ass and just to make the horror complete, it'd be *his* team called in to clean the scene…Dean would be laughing his ass off--if Sammy had to go, this is how he would have wanted it…fuck that.

Dean…his chest squeezed so tight it made him gasp in pain. And a lilting voice said, Sam, over here, Sam, over here Sam … he started to look, remembered the warning and shut his eyes.

A woman's voice called out to him. Sam Sam Sammy down here, son, sweetheart. I'm here. Look in the water, sweetheart I'm here.

Save me, Sam, save me, I'm here, take my hand, come on son. Look at me, Sam. Dad….

I'm here asshole, me--right here—you found me, help me in the boat, you freak…
Voices he knew, voices called him….

Sam, you screwed up before here’s your chance to fix it, boy. Pull your dad up, I'm waiting. Are you listening to me? Oh God, why won’t you help your mother, I'm drowning. Don’t you care, don't you hear me? It's Jess, did you forget me already? Remember how you told me that you loved me? Why did you lie?

Sam squeezed his eyes shut tighter but tears still fell—everyday he felt guilty for loving her. The guilt was almost as deep and as wide as the guilt he felt for losing Dean… God, Jess, I didn’t lie, I loved you, I mourned you so hard. He caught his lip in his teeth to keep from speaking aloud and the taste of warm copper flooded his mouth.

You never loved anyone, you never loved us, not enough…here's your chance to make up for it darling, lean over the boat and take my hand…unless you're just waiting for *Dean*… The voice was thick with insinuation and his blood ran cold, guilt made his stomach clench... Oh my God, she knew, she knew....

You can't love, can you, you're selfish and a liar-- the voice he knew had to be his mother's voice flayed him, cut into him like a whip, left his soul bleeding...

They moved forward and the fog laying over the black water rose, brought with it a stink of sulfur and rot that made him gag. The smell was thick enough to be a presence, weighed on him as heavily as the demands and awful pleas for help. Sam tried to ignore the moaning, the hopeless screams, the heavy slap of wet flesh against the sides of the boat. He told himself he heard only the creak of wood, the splash of the oar through water. He concentrated on keeping his balance, and muttered Latin under his breath, did sums and the capitals of the states, falling into the rituals of his boyhood and leaning on them. Dean would never want him to hurt, his mother loved him, his father…he'd loved him he was sure of that as he was certain of Jess' love as he was of Dean's it was as strong and pure and none of these would want to hurt him….

The boat dipped suddenly and he stumbled--nearly fell. His hands were balled into fists and shoved under his arms and it took a second for him to be able to relax them, to drop his arms. The boat dipped again and slowed. He carefully opened his eyes and the same fucking dock was in front of him. The fuck, we went in a circle—fucker-- He was furious at being tricked—he was about to turn and confront the boatman—and remembered not to look behind him.

You may disembark…that means get out. Remember. The path is no different than the water.

Sam quelled his desire to flip the boatman off and just nodded. "Okay. Keep to the path and don’t move and look for…" and it occurred to him he had no idea what he was looking for. What signs, what direction…he was about to ask 'for what?', until he remembered, no questions, no questions at all.

The boat bobbed as he got off and stood on the dock. The Boatman said with a smirk in its voice, straight on until morning, eh sport?

Bastard. Smirking know it all smart ass bastard. Sam swept his hair back out of his eyes. The heat was gone. It was a little cold now and the sound of his breathing seemed to echo in the damp grey air. It was okay…he was grateful for the damp. He shivered and started walking, and the road turned into a gray forest.

Dead twigs and fallen leaves snapped and whispered under his feet. Cold damp mist clung to him like spider webs…he felt someone walking next to him. A soft loving voice whispered You’re so handsome son, how tall you've grown. Do you miss me at all, let me take your hand, just for a second, I promise, just for a second…. Sam blinked and in the trees, in the underbrush in front of him, white flowers became pale faces, calling to him, screaming in silent agony, smiling, leering…Sammy touch me Sam take my hand kiss me Sam…

Sam jammed his hands under his arms, trained his eyes straight ahead and kept walking. Dean Dean Dean Dean….

Dean Dean Dean…he was almost out of the forest, and he exhaled a long grateful breath. Finally. He was on a clear path now and the world was silent again, but this silence was like the silence right before dawn. The path he was on angled upwards and he walked on, jaw clamped tight, working...by the time he finally allowed himself to stop, the muscles in his legs were cramped and burning.

He was at the top of the rise and down below, at the end of the path, standing out from the gray landscape like a wound, was a brightly painted cottage.

A neat hedge taller than his head lined the lower portion of the road, but the closer he got to the cottage, the looser, shaggier, and wilder it became, until brittle black branches crossed the path and ripped at his clothes, his skin, it grew thorns and tore at him, interlocked branches and held him, spoke to him, cursed him—

"*Fuck!* Oh my God, fuck this so much—" He started swinging his fists, smashing his way through the branches, they snapped and stabbed and—and *bit* him, he was sure he was being bitten—

When he got Dean out of here, he was going to *kick* his ass, swear to God…

He was out of the murderous hedge, panting and bleeding, weaving drunkenly into a clearing in front of something that looked like…like the witch's cottage out of Hansel and Gretel, sort of. He brushed at the bloody tatters his clothing had become and shook his head hard. Okay—he'd definitely been given demon roofies--that lying trickster motherfucker. But if whoever was in that hut could get him back Dean, he'd do—fuck. He'd do anything.

The door opened and a wrinkled, wrinkled face appeared in the crack.

"Come here."

Sam shook his head again, mouth open. "What? Come here?" What the fuck...come here. He shrugged. So far not a damn thing's gone down anything like he expected. Why let this wrinkled…crone or whatever throw him?

He stepped into velvety darkness thick with the scent of ginger and nutmeg and a peppery kind of smell. It was oddly comforting and if he hadn't been about to explode right out of his skin with exhaustion and frustration, he might have enjoyed it. He took a deep breath and a step forward--and realized suddenly he was whole and clean—the sting of dozens of cuts and scratches and punctures disappeared, his clothes were whole, like he'd never torn his way through the hedges….

"I'm—I'm here. I don’t know why I'm here and that was *not* a question it was a statement of fact."

The small wrinkled, wrinkled being shrugged and it was like watching a Shar-Pei pup wiggle and incredibly, there was nothing in the least bit cute about it. "It's allowed to question now. You are at a stop. Station. A point of not moving." It peered up into his face with an expression that said I've made all clear to you. Sam bit his lip, worried at it and wondered if he dared even move at this point. He had no idea what was going on.

"You are here to bring out a wish. Need. Your heart's desire. That's what people come here for. You have faith enough and you may get what you want. Doubt for an instant and it's lost. Forever. Do you understand what forever means?"

Sam huffed. "Yes. I do know what it means—and you know what, I won't doubt. Because I know what I'm here for.

"It's a rare man who knows his heart so well." She held out a wrinkled hand and her pale green eyes flashed. Let us seal this, Samuel and you can be on your way.

Sam reached out his own hand, slowly. He asked, "What about my…my heart's desire?" He felt his cheeks flush. "Where—shit!"

She'd yanked his hand close to her mouth and ripped a chunk of flesh from the mound of his thumb. He jerked his hand back with a yell--blood spattered hot over his shirt. He cursed and cursed and stumbled back from her. "What the fuck—"

"Recompense. Price. Payment for your heart's desire. There is your desire." She pointed to the floor, red smile gleaming in the wrinkles. A long bundle lay there, a rug rolled over a body. Sam dropped to lift a corner of the rug, but she stopped him. "Ah-ah-ah. Not. Unless you want to stay. You must have to…believe."

Sam groaned to himself and lifted the heavy bundle, his torn hand smearing blood all over the rough exterior of the rug as he staggered to his feet…the smoke from the fireplace rolled out grey and thick as fog and the smell of ginger grew.

"Go on home boy. Take your gift and go home." The door opened and Sam staggered toward the light leaking in, the weight of his burden making every step he took felt like he was walking through molten lead. Step after step burned through him, the limp weight grew and grew. Sweat rolled down his forehead, neck, breath rasped and burned in his throat. The door loomed in front of him but seemed no closer. He bit his lips and stubbornly kept walking. Dean. Right. He had Dean and nothing else mattered. Dean in his arms and that was all that counted, he was bringing him home and it didn't matter that Dean didn’t move because he was alive and he had him—Sam knew it, in his blood, in his heart, in his breath, he knew Dean lived—the door was in front of him and he stepped through….

The hotel room felt chilly compared to what was behind him, and the air seemed sweet and he gasped in great cooling breaths. His head was swimming as he stepped farther into the room and laid his burden down on the floor. He lifted the rug away, knowing that he was going to see his brother, finally after three years, Dean was back, he had him back—

It came as a complete shock and a gross disappointment that what was in the rug was a lumpy nearly shapeless figure made of filth and blood and rags….

"No!" Sam fell back on his ass-threw his head back and screamed. Tricked, tortured, for what—*why?* Why make him go through that just…just to laugh at him? An arm coated with filth and grease, ending in a bloody flipper, smacked against the floor. Thick, glutinous mud studded with grass and twigs dripped on the floor. Shiny bits of gravel and sand glinted in the mess. Sam wiped his eyes, snuffling hard, watching the mud mixture slide off the arm and plop thickly on the floor. His breath hitched and caught in his throat. This is what happened when you let yourself hope--this pain….

Something at the end of the arm twitched, poked through the mud…a finger?

Fingers? He grabbed the arm and combed his own fingers through the sticky filth and curled them around the five perfect fingers he found. He ripped the rug open wider, and cursed. What had seemed a featureless head wasn't—there was hair, glued flat with blood and dirt and mucus, and under that coating, there were ears, and eyes, a mouth tightly shut against the gunk and—

Sam raced into the room's bath and reached into the tub to flip the faucets on, and turned on the shower. He kicked off his shoes as he hopped around the little room, lurching and banging into walls, trying to jump out of his jeans and take off his shirt and socks all at once. Finally stripped down to t-shirt and boxers, he ran back out to Dean, still and unmoving in the middle of the room…he locked his arms around Dean's chest and dragged him into the bathroom.

Sam knelt in the tub with Dean slumped under the shower's spray, trying to hold him up and wash him at the same time. The water swirled down the drain, carrying blood and mucus and shit with it and every so often, he had to stop and clear the drain. Sam was getting smeared himself, with clots and globs of stinking filth—it was seriously nasty. Reminded him a bit of the stuff that shapeshifter, the one who'd stolen Dean's face, had left behind when it…shed. Molted. Whatever. The memory made him gag, as much as the *smell* coming from the gunk…the steam from the hot water was doing a great job filling the air with the stench, but it didn’t matter now because Dean was coming to life under his hands. His body, his face…his face…freed from the muck as hot water and soap revealed him bit by bit. Shreds of leaves and grass and strands of what looked like ivory colored straw washed off of him, dirt and tiny white bits of gravel glittered in the bottom of the tub.

The shower was pretty much running cold and Sam's teeth were chattering when the water finally ran down the drain crystal clear.

He dragged a still unconscious Dean out of the shower. He was glad he'd taken his clothes off, kind of wished he'd ignored the stupid impulse for propriety that made him keep his underwear on…and oh shit. All Dean had to wear was a rug--

Sam stopped and wiped wet hair back from his face and exhaled. Slowly, a tiny bubble of weird ass amusement rose in his chest, blew out of him in a sharp bark of laughter. Dean naked and—and *naked*. That was going to make check-out some kind of difficult.

He spread Dean out on the bed and rubbed him down with a towel. The gentle swirling circles Sam swept over him slowed. Dean was…he looked closer at Dean's skin. There were marks all over him. His body was covered with odd lines of scarring, white and thin, pink and raised—at first it seemed the lines were scattered over his skin but there seemed to be some hint of pattern. Sam ran his fingers over the healed marks until it began to feel—intrusive. He swallowed hard, and rolled Dean under the blankets. He thought about sleeping on the floor and sighed. He kicked off his soaking underwear and wiped himself down with a dry towel quickly— crawled in with Dean. Fuck worrying about Dean waking up and beating the shit out of him. Hell, he saved his life. Brought him back home, Dean should be damn grateful for that--cut him some slack. He curved around his brother's back; the skin was chilled, so he pulled Dean tight against himself, wrapped his arms around him. He figured that'd make it a little harder for Dean to swing at him when he woke. When he woke…it'd all be different. It'd be right again. The way it was supposed to be, Dean with him, and him back with Dean. His eyes burned and he blinked hard. When he had the time, when everything was back in order, he was going to cry his fucking brains out and he'd deserve it too, damn it.

Sam fell asleep waiting for Dean's skin to warm.

Sam was ripped out of sleep by a siren shriek of pain—or fear. The bed was empty. Dean was moving crab-like across the floor, screaming. His gaze skittered around the room—he inhaled sharp and shocked when he saw Sam was awake, and froze.

"Dean—" The sudden, complete silence was almost as shocking as Dean's reaction to his voice. Sam watched him open-mouthed as he suddenly jerked like he was coming out of a trance--his eyes slammed shut and he rolled into a ball, fisted hands crossed over his face.

"Dean…Dean…" Sam dropped to the floor next to him and reached out for him, and Dean shuddered all over once and lay still, as if he was waiting. The way he did it…was wrong and awful and it *hurt* to see. Sam told himself he understood. After all, he couldn’t imagine what Dean suffered, year after year, what had been done to him to make him look like…like he had when Sam brought him out of Hell….

Trying to speak as soothingly as possible, he said, "Okay, you take your time, it's okay. You’re safe now, though, I want you to know that. You’re home, Dean." Dean didn’t move, and Sam sighed. He went into the bathroom to get water and when he came out, Dean was gone.

"Shit!" The glass dropped out of his nerveless fingers, rolled under the bed. He looked around wildly, rushed to the door--which was still locked. The windows were closed, still locked--still smeared with the wash he'd applied before he stepped into hell…what the fuck--

Sam glanced around the room again and looked at the bed….

He dropped to his knees and lifted the spread and Dean was under the bed, back to the wall and teeth bared. He looked terrified—so beyond terrified his expression was hardly human. Sam's heart tore.

He leaned back against the bed, shoulders against the box spring and his eyes filled. How in the hell had he been stupid enough to imagine that this was going to be anything like simple…that all he'd have to do was get Dean home and it'd all be sparkles and rainbows after that. This…this was going to be some shit. Worse than…he wiped at his eyes, ground his fists into them hard.

Okay. He took a deep breath. Okay damn it, let me think…the room had been cleaned. The altar was gone, just a nightstand now, holding an ugly lamp and an ancient pea soup green phone with square buttons. He huffed. Esu had the same Winchester taste in motels…he checked in the drawer and the gun he'd left on the altar was there, wrapped in the bandana he'd used to wash the doors and windows. Thoughtful.

He called the desk and asked for how long the room had been rented, and was told the room was his for three days. That left him one more day. He could call Raph, tell him that he'd found Dean and ask him to bring the clothes from his locker at work and that would solve his naked Dean problem, and then…then what?

What exactly did you do to help someone recover from the trauma of Hell? It sounded so stupid he laughed out loud, and was startled by the sound of wheezing from under the bed…shit!

Dean was shaking, his breath coming out in panicked bursts. Sam's stomach rolled. The sound of his laughter had sent his brother into a fit of terror.

God. The sound of *laughter* was terrifying him…

"Come out Dean, please…come out and eat—you want to eat?"

Dean was still plastered against the back wall, still scared, still wide-eyed, and if Sam tried to reach out, he shivered like a leaf in the wind…. Fuck. When Raph knocks on the door, it's going to make him freak like--and right on schedule, pounding on the door sent Dean into a shaking fit. "Swear to God, Dean, it's okay. I promise."

He answered the door, and Raph was standing there, holding two paper bags. "Hey, come on in. And can you try to keep it…quiet? He's a little, a little...." Sam stuttered into silence, and Raph gave him a look too full of understanding.

"Gotcha," his voice pitched low as he was capable. "Here's the clothes." He glanced around the room. "Where is he—oh. Damn..." Raph looked at him and Sam wanted to curse, punch him anything but be on the receiving end of that look…it hurt. "He's under the bed? Damn. Boss, if you need help—Boss, you need *help*," he said decisively.

"Raph…I'll talk to you tomorrow. And don't—not yet—you know."

"Hey, like the grave, man. See you tomorrow?"

"I'll call you. And thanks again Raph."

The next morning…Sam thought if *ever* anyone asked him if he'd like to relive it, he'd beat the shit out of them. Fuck—he'd pump silver bullets into their hearts.

It'd started with spending a long, long night laying on the floor next to the bed, and just kept getting better with the dawn—first, leaving Dean alone in the bathroom had turned out to be a major bad idea. He'd caught sight of himself in the mirror and just…screamed. Screamed and screamed until Sam had managed to yank him out of the room. He'd had to practically tackle him in order to drag his ass out of that bathroom. He wished he'd been able to do it before Dean put his fist through the mirror.

It got better….

He spent a half hour trying to get a flinching, whining, bleeding, screaming, trembling and completely uncooperative body into clothing…it came as no surprise that the hotel's single security guy had come banging on the door. Between trying to quiet Dean and assure the guard that everything was fine, just fine, he finally opened the door to him. "Look…my brother is. Uhm. Having problems." He tried to smile reassuringly…sure. He looked like he'd just stepped out of a wind tunnel, his shirt was smeared with blood--he probably looked like a serial killer. "I'm trying to get him out to our car and he's…."

The guy caught sight of Dean, half dressed, looking equally panicked, angry and…and devastated, so much so that even the cynical guard folded. Nodded, with that fucking sympathetic look, so like Raph's—the one that made Sam want to kick the shit out of someone. He shrugged. "I'm trying to get him ready, promise."

"Sir, try and keep it down some. I'll handle the other guests but...you're leaving, right?"

Sam assured him that they were, and as quickly as was possible. He thanked him for his patience, and shut the door and cursed long and low. Dean had his shirt almost off again, struggling against his arms trapped in the fabric and he was crouched against the floor again and just…shivering. fuck, just don't scream, please don't—

Dean started screaming like he was being gutted.

Sam tackled him and brought him down flat to the floor and Dean went dead silent and still as a stone. Sam yanked his head free of the shirt and Dean was quiet and just—absent. No matter how Sam patted his cheek or shook him there was no reaction and he thought oh my God, how do I make this better? Can I make this better?

Maybe he should have called for help. "Get up Dean, please—" he was prepared to be ignored, but Dean opened his eyes. He let himself be pulled up to his feet, let himself be dressed and pulled and prodded until he was more or less presentable. "Walk, okay? Can you walk?

Dean stared at him, his eyes skittering over and away from his face, flat and dull, but he took a step. Sam felt a flare of triumph and relief. Step after step they walked out of the room to the elevator. It felt as if a lifetime passed as they crossed the lobby and walked out to the parking lot behind the Crossroads. Sam shoved Dean into the car, unbelievably thankful they'd managed it without incident—he wanted to put all that shit behind him and he knew once they were safe at home the whole situation was bound to improve. Had to. Once they were back in the apartment, they'd figure out the next step. He drove towards home with his brother shivering and whining quietly in the seat next to him and tried not to worry.

He got Dean into the apartment with little trouble and took a deep breath, felt like his first breath since they'd climbed into the car. They'd done it. Home again. Home again.

It went straight to shit from there.

Sam sat at his table and drank what had to have been his fifth or sixth cup of bitter black coffee …he'd kind of lost track along the way. He grimaced, gulped it down and prayed for strength, or at least the strength to keep his eyelids up. He folded his arms on the table top and rested his forehead on them…he breathed out, tried to empty his lungs. From the bedroom a steady whine rose and fell. Dean was in there and he might be just a little sort of tied. To the bed—

Sam giggled, pressed his face against his arms hard enough to hurt. Dean tied to his bed. God, that would have been fodder for…yeah.

Reality was worlds uglier than that--Dean kept trying to hurt himself. When he couldn’t find some object to stab at himself he was ripping at his skin, stopping only when Sam gave in and tied his hands to the bedposts. There really was no way to do that gently. Dean stopped screaming at least, but mostly because he couldn't anymore and the noise he made when he tried to anyway was almost worse. Dean didn't know who his brother was and he didn’t know who he was. He was terrified by the face in the mirror and Sam was terrified that he might never know. He considered calling Bobby, over and over he reached for the phone but something stopped him, some instinct held him back.

A low despairing moan came from the bedroom and Sam shuddered. This was insane. He needed sleep. Dean needed sleep.

He called Raph.

Raph whistled when he saw Sam. "Boss, you look like shit. Where's your bro—whoa."

Dean let out a long hoarse scream, and Sam just shuddered, his eyes closing involuntarily.

"'Kaa-y." Raph reached in his pocket and pulled out a bottle of pills. "We'll give him two of these. They'll knock him out pretty good. You need to sleep too, Sam. You're going to die if you keep this up. You haven't slept since you brought him home, I bet." He frowned. "No one would think bad of you if you had him—you know, there are nice places—" He tried to step inside and stopped at Sam's look.

"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about." Sam held his hand out and shook it impatiently. "Just. Gimme the pills and go."

Raph nodded and dropped the bottle into his hand and Sam shut the door on him and went back to the bedroom.

Sam got the pills into Dean by shoving his fingers down his throat. It got the pills in but Dean went as blank as he had in the hotel room, unmoving and eyes fixed on some distant point. Sam crouched on the edge of the bed, waiting until Dean sighed and finally let go. He was out, deep in sleep and Sam freed his hands but left an ankle tied. This…was a nightmare. Drugging Dean, keeping him leashed to the bed, listening to him scream and fight and cry…Jesus. He kept telling himself that this was better than the last three years, that this was to be expected and eventually they'd get through this. He swore he'd do anything, *give* anything to have Dean back and he was sure as fuck not sorry that his brother was back…he stroked Dean's arm, relishing the warmth, the feel of the hair on his arms so soft against his palm…he hung his head and his eyes pricked sharply.

He was pretty damn tired….

He walked towards the kitchen, sniffing deeply, stunned that the smell of frying bacon wasn't a hallucination. Sitting on the counter were a couple of egg and bacon sandwiches on a plate, along with a big glass of orange juice. "Dude," Raph said, "Where the fuck's the food? What the fuck are you guys eating?"

Sam stood open mouthed in the doorway, angry as shit that Raph hadn't left, not really wanting him in the apartment—not wanting him to interfere. He seriously thought about punching the shit out of Raphael, but his stomach growled loudly, told him not to be an asshole to the person willing to feed him.

"Damn dude—you loud. Eat something."

Sam dropped into the seat, snatched up a greasy sandwich and took a huge bite and almost moaned. There were times that bacon was definitely called for…he swallowed and eyed Raph. "I thought I told you to get out."

"Shit." Raph was busy ignoring him, he had the trash can lid up and was staring down into it with a look of disgust. "Ya'll been eating applesauce and cup-a-soups? Shit. No wonder you sounded like a starving wookie."

"It's Dean. He won't eat much else. I think…" Sam inhaled, and held it for a moment. "I think it hurts him but I haven't…haven't looked in his mouth." He bit his lip, feeling all the words want to come pouring out and struggling to hold them in.

Raph frowned. "How about I take a look?"

Sam clamped down his automatic response of 'fuck no'--shook his head. "No. He's pretty messed up. Strangers will just make it worse." And he really didn’t want Raph becoming more involved than he had to be. Hell, Raph *already* was more involved than he should be.

"Man, he's got to be asleep by now. I'll just look real quick okay? He needs someone to take a look at him and I'm guessing if I told you to take him to an ER—"

"No!"

"--that you wouldn't go for that."

Sam scowled, and shoved the juice and the food away. "Come on. He's in here." Raph was a paramedic before he was a crime scene cleaner. He might pick up on stuff Sam was missing. And it was better than having a complete stranger intruding on them.

Raph kind of stuttered to a stop in the bedroom doorway. "Well fuck." He shook his head and said, "Dude. This—you can't—okay, never mind that right now." He laced his fingers together over his bald head and frowned. "I just…damn…" He went to the bed without further comment on the restraints, examined Dean as quickly as he could. He whistled. "Shit. Looks like someone worked the inside of his mouth over with a wire brush. He's…he's really taken some kind of beatings. He's got a lot of old and new scarring but doesn't look like anything deep, except for this one on his chest." He touched the nearly circular gnarled scar and Sam flinched. He knew why that scar was there and didn't want to think how it happened. "I think…well, you want to get some testing done on him, for sure. I'm sorry. I don’t mind helping out when you need it. Like I said, me and Danny both worked on a psych ward…you know."

Sam leaned on the headboard and fought down the surge of anger at the hint that Dean was less than okay…obvious as it was. Shit, Raph was right, hadn't really told him more than he didn't already know. Now that Dean was safely asleep, Sam had to admit that for the first time in days he felt a little less tightly strung. He wanted to hang onto the feeling for a few seconds more. "You've been a bit of everything, haven't you?"

"I get bored." He shoved Sam out the door, back into the kitchen and pointedly put his plate back in front of him. He dropped into the chair opposite Sam, crossed his arms on the table and rested his chin on them. "Hey, remind me some day to tell you about the escort service…"

"The fuck. You're kidding right?" Sam hesitated a moment before grabbing the sandwich and tearing into it.

"Maybe. And what, you think I ain't handsome enough, hunh?" Raph grinned and got to his feet, handed Sam a sleeping pill. When Sam shook his head and tried to refuse Raph said, "Don't worry, Boss. I'm staying here. Ears open, eyes wide. Relax."

Sam rolled the pill on his palm, thinking—and took it. He wasn't going to do Dean a bit of good if he was staggering and stupid for lack of sleep. He looked up at Raph and saw only sincere concern in his eyes and for a helpless second felt his eyes fill.

Raph just pointed at the bedroom. "Go. Do us both a favor and get some sleep."

hot hot hot and hot…thirsty. Hurt. They're coming again. Quiet yes, promise quiet please don't hurt me. Please, don’t hurt me. I don’t want to be this, don’t want it. Sorry.

Sam woke in the middle of the night…he was tense all over, listening hard, his heart tripping…he took a deep breath and decided it was the quiet that woke him. He lifted to one elbow and looked down at Dean. For the first time in days, he wasn’t jerking awake every few minutes. He was deeply asleep, still, not a twitch, not a moan. He smiled down into his brother's face and let his fingers trail over his warm cheek. Thank God, he was getting some peace at least this night.

no no no—can't move, can't run can't SCREAM. Don’t do that please please I'll do anything don't…PLEASE.

Raph was sacked out on the couch and looked a hell of a lot more comfortable on it than Sam had ever been. Sam peered over the back, into Raph's face. Like most anyone else, he looked softer asleep. Kind of…cuddly. Almost. Not that he'd ever risk telling him that, Sam grinned. He chuckled and Raph woke up. All at once, and completely alert. He would have made a good hunter.

"Hey." His voice was sleep-rough, and Sam had to admit, it did pleasant things to him. Again, not something he'd tell Raph. The man was conceited enough.

"Cassandra called around five—wants to know if we're coming in. Told her you'd be home today but you'd call later," Raph said, already reaching for his boots on the floor. "Brother didn't stir all night. You on the other hand, snore and drool like fucking Niagara Falls--so gross. Wait 'til I tell Danny." He slipped the boots on and looked Sam up and down. "You still look like shit, but you'll do. I'll send one of the guys over later with food, okay?" He folded the blanket and tossed it over the back of the couch. "And man. Buy a real couch, you cheap mother fucker."

Sam laughed as he walked him to the door. "Maybe."

"You might want to take some time off, you know. If you can."

Sam grabbed Raph's shoulder and squeezed. "Hey..."

"Don’t get messy on me," Raph said, batting his hand away and Sam choked back a watery laugh.

"You and Dean would get along great—will get along great," he amended. Raph waved him off with a smile, headed away down the hall.

Sam sighed, shut the door—and had a brief and intense desire to rip the door back open and scream for Raph to come back. He rolled his shoulders and said aloud, "I can do this. I don’t need anyone else. All we need are each other."

Sam rolled off the couch with a groan. God, Raph was so right—the thing was a fucking horror. He glared at the couch like it was possessed…no one would fault him if he salted and burned it....

He wandered into the kitchen and was faintly surprised to see that it was past eleven o'clock. Fuck. Oh well. They both needed the sleep; last night was the first night Dean'd slept straight through since he'd gotten him back. The quiet was a relief, and knowing that Dean was safely asleep was a good thing for both of them, but it was probably time he woke him up—got him fed....

He walked into his bedroom and the first thing he heard was an odd scritching, sort of squeaky sound…as he watched Dean shivered all over, sound asleep but still grey with exhaustion. Sam came closer, leaned on the edge of the bed and Dean whimpered and between panting, ground his teeth, explaining the odd sound. He whined faintly in between each harsh exhalation, and as Sam expected, he began scratching at his skin with blunt nails. Red weals bloomed everywhere but…Sam leaned even closer…not where he scratched, he saw. "What the fuck--" He dropped to his knees, and lifted the sheet carefully away from Dean.

As Sam watched, thin red lines rose, thickened, darkened, and then paled to ivory before disappearing altogether; they ran down his arms, his chest, disappeared beneath the waistband of the sweatpants he wore. Sam could see weals tracing the lines of his feet….

"Shit…" The weals were gone and the scars that had been there seemed no different. Was Dean was being attacked by something outside of him, or was it some sort of…echo of Hell? He thought about that old cobbled together EMF meter he'd saved, stuffed in a bag in the bottom of the closet and sighed. He might as well admit that the long vacation he taken from that world was coming to an end—getting Dean back was going to come with some kind of price no matter what Esu said….

Sam lowered his hand to Dean's chest, about to touch the scooped out scar there when he suddenly snapped awake, surged towards Sam in a liquid move. His teeth were bared and he was snarling like a wild thing. He looked ready to rip into him, but flinched back at the last second when he recognized Sam.

Sam was as startled by the attack as Dean seemed to be. He gotten used to him crying, or spacing out, or tearing at his body like he was trying to pull something out of himself…but this was…hell, it was *scary*. Dean looked nothing like pitiful—he looked fucking dangerous.

Sam edged away from him, slowly, carefully, with his hands up and open. He tried to smile and hoped it wasn't the slippery grimace it felt like on his face. He hoped it radiated good damn morning and hey, no big that his brother'd just tried to tear his throat out…"Hey Dean, how're you feelin'? Ready to get up? Um--you want to—to eat?" Sam spoke soothingly, quietly; the tone he'd take talking to a skittish dog who just might decide what he wanted was to chew Sam's face off. Sam smiled and waited, kind of hoping for an actual answer, but Dean just watched him silently, wary as a Weimaraner on point as Sam eased off the bed carefully.

Sam sighed, got up and headed to the kitchen. He stopped in the middle of the room, thinking, before rubbing hard at the back of his neck. Food…definitely needed to get some. Yeah. In the end, he just heated up what was left of his sandwiches and brought it back to the bedroom. Dean was exactly as he'd left him, wary eyes darting this way and that, tracking Sam's movement but not meeting his eyes. When Sam sat on the edge of the bed again, Dean slid quietly away from him and Sam felt it like a punch to the chest. He swallowed and tried to project comfort; waited until he was sure his voice wouldn’t shake before he spoke. "He--hey. Want a bite?" Dean didn’t move, so he nibbled an edge of the sandwich, tried to convey with facial tics that it was the best god damn luke-warm bacon and egg sandwich in the whole damn world, and waited for Dean's move.

Dean watching him chew the sandwich made him feel just a little uneasy, considering he was watching him as intensely as he used to watch--porn. He sniffed like he was trying to inhale the sandwich, and made a faint questioning sound. "Mmm, good…you want some, right?" Of course he wanted some, bacon was practically food of the gods as far as Dean was concerned, no way he'd be able to resist…and yeah, Dean inched even closer. A tiny line of drool dripped unnoticed from his chin and Sam's stomach twisted. "Here—take a damn bite all ready." But the hand holding out the sandwich out to Dean was rock-steady and his face was blank, and he tried to keep his voice level and calm. "Take it damn it. You're starving. Here, eat the fucking thing." A memory spun up from somewhere, some place—his pudgy little kid hand holding out half his sandwich for a stray and getting yelled at for wasting food.

The smell finally became too much for him, and Dean struck like a snake—ripped the sandwich out of his hand and in not more than a second, wolfed it down. Looked a little stunned when the flavor registered—his mouth dropped open in astonishment and his eyes went wide. He licked and licked his lips, his hands, sucked grease off his fingers…he closed his eyes, the tip of his tongue touched lightly across his lips again and suddenly, he smiled and whuffed out a little sigh….

Jesus…Heat raced through him and Sam tugged his shirt down until it shielded his lap and felt…dirty. That smile, that pointed little tongue tip…he moved farther towards the foot of the bed. Away from Dean. "Good, uh. Good--do you want more?"

Dean stared at Sam, and okay, so even if he didn't talk back, Dean understood what he was saying. The look of awe-struck hope in his eyes was almost enough to break Sam. "Yeah, okay. I'm going to take this off," he laid his hand on Dean's ankle, "And we can go in the kitchen. You can watch me make a sandwich, all right?"

Dean narrowed his eyes and jerked his head once up and down. He wiped at the thin reddish line running over his chin—

"Fuck—" Sam grabbed his chin and pulled down and Dean squeaked and froze. A long shudder ran over him, he inhaled sharply and opened wider. The inside of his mouth was raw, just like Raph said, and thinned blood stained his teeth. It looked like a cut had re-opened…Dean moaned, an unhappy sound--but he didn't move, or try to get away. He looked…resigned. His tongue slid forward and lapped at Sam's fingers.

"Jesus—stop that!" Sam jerked his hand away. He was burning—from horror at Dean's action, at what his expression hinted at…from shame. He jumped to his feet. "Kitchen—soup! Coke! Come—come on!" He reached out to grab Dean, yanked his hand back. He waffled uncertainly and finally just bolted for the door.

Dean was thoroughly confused but he followed Sam out, his bare feet making a pattering sound on the tile as he trailed him.

"Soup I think, I mean toast is no good right now, you need soft stuff, but I promise no more cup-a-soups or fucking applesauce, we're going to get decent, I mean, real food, healthy—good for you--" he knew he was babbling but couldn’t stop. He opened the fridge door and stared inside, and hoped that at least the cold would kill the blush he could feel heating his cheeks. "Ah fuck, I forgot…looks like we'll eat healthy as soon as I go shopping, damn it."

He rummaged through the cabinets and found a couple of cans of soup…he opened a can of chicken and rice, and poured it into a pot. Dean was still standing where Sam left him, breathing hard; glancing around when he thought Sam wasn't looking. His mouth was moving but Sam couldn’t read his lips…he wasn't whispering or singing. Just…moving his mouth. "C'mere," Sam said and held a hand out.

Dean padded quickly across the kitchen, dropped to his knees in front of Sam and reached for his belt and Sam yelped. He flailed, yelled when he connected with Dean and knocked him to the floor. He lay there; terrified eyes on him, gulping like a fish on dry land...Sam clamped his hands over his mouth, hard.

This?

*So* much worse than he ever imagined.

Sam broke out the bottle of Wild Turkey a grateful client had gifted him with once. He usually gave the gifts and stuff to the crew but it had reminded him of Dean and he'd taken it home, not ever really meaning to drink it, not ever really thinking anyone would, but still hoping that some day….

So, okay…someday was here and he felt like right now, he could use a drink or two. More.

Dean was hovering at the edge of his sight, pacing back and forth, glancing at him and away…really should get him back into the bedroom. He'd been jumpy but quiet since that—that display.

Every fucking time Sam closed his eyes, that image short-circuited his brain. It scared him, made him sick—partly because it was that very image that woke him in the middle of the night, guilty and sweating, but mostly because--why would Dean *do* that? Shit, what happened to him, that getting on his knees was the response to…Sam breathed in a shuddering sigh, lifted the bottle and gulped—made a face. Swear to God, he didn't want to know—

He pulled himself to his feet and almost said "come here" before his throat closed. He grabbed Dean by the wrist and dragged him back to the bedroom. The second he let go of his wrist, Dean rolled into a ball on the floor next to the bed. Sam sank onto the mattress, fingering the rope and drinking.

Okay, fuck that, he wasn't going to tie Dean down, not anymore, he wasn't. Dean was still curled in on himself, but watched Sam's every movement through his fingers. He looked like…he was ready to bolt. Looked hungry still and yeah, sure he was. Need to get up again, get food into him, the soup--he was skinny as hell. It made Sam so sad, how skinny he was. All stabbing elbows, and knobby knees pulling the fabric of the sweat pants out of shape, ribs laddering up his sides. Shit—he could count them. He would count them if he could get up, one by one…freckles. He sighed. Being in hell had stolen all Dean's freckles, all the scars he remembered…all gone but these new odd ones, replacing them. He didn’t like the new ones. "Don't," he muttered, "like them." He flopped down on his back, cradling the bottle…thinking. Remembering.

Dean's freckles. He used to imagine what it would be like to touch his tongue to them, follow them, connect each little copper dot to dot…he sobbed. Is that what happened to them? Was it him wanting these sick things that lead to this punishment? He sobbed louder when the still shape at his feet shuddered and whined. Dean was the unfortunate one, he'd had to pay because Dean always paid for him…he shook the nearly empty bottle. God, he hoped he was just going to pass the fuck out—though with his luck, he'd choke to death on his own vomit…s'okay, he deserved it. He cried quietly now and wiped snot off his lip and remembered that this? Was why he didn’t drink, something he never managed to remember until he was drunk and swearing not to ever be drunk again. Dean was inches from his face, warm breath gusting over Sam's mouth; his head tilted like his brother was a puzzle he was trying to decipher.

"Dean, sorry…Dean." After that, he didn't know anything for a while--

Dean drifted in and out of sleep—each time he woke, his body tensed against the pain he expected and was terrified when it didn't come. Each time he had to remind himself this was not the world filled with fire and ash and blood…this world was cold and wet, the air pawed at him and clung to his pores and made his lungs feel soggy and too full. He shivered and turned on the hard flat surface. The floor. Bits and pieces of memories clicked into place but so slowly. It hurt, and sometimes he wished for them not to come but he knew it was important. He must have these memories for Sam and Sam was important to him…he just couldn't remember why.

It was comfortable under the bed, narrow, dark and safe. Dean swept his head back and forth, searching; listening. He wasn't allowed to protect himself but if he could make himself ready for it than the pain wasn't as bad. Somewhat. He longed for the days when he could hurt back—hurt *first*.

Thirst and hunger finally drove him out from under the bed. Sam's thick, gurgling snores had turned to even quite breathing and light seeped in past the closed drapes. Dark and light—this was a thing that happened. Before, it was always dark. The sky was always red from the fires and dark with smoke but now…Dean trembled as memory came to him. Dark and light, was day and night. Day. Daybreak. Daytime, morning, afternoon evening night midnight sun sunlight stars moon clouds sky Sam… He shuddered under the shower of chill words and icy images interwoven with images that were black and howling, burned as they filled his mouth with blood and ripped through him like knives dug into his heart and…it felt good. Normal. Felt like--

He came to, curled on his side, nauseous and shivering as the information overload ebbed. He pulled himself up on the side of the bed and froze, waiting. Sam was silent, deep in sleep. He quickly scurried across the room and fetched up against doorframe. His eyes flashed from the sleeping form on the bed, to the open doorway. A cramp folded him over and made him grunt. Hungry. He was hungry and Sam, was sleeping. He'd been sleeping and sleeping and not feeding Dean and now Dean was hungry. Dean…me. Me. I…hungry.He shook his head hard. Dean. He was Dean. I am. I am--He licked the inside of his mouth, tasting…feeling. Stared at his hands. Put a finger in his mouth, tasting…salt, wet…nothing else.

He crawled back over to the bed and looked at Sam, sleeping like the dead, mouth open and sour breath slowly gusting in and out. He made a noise; a squeak…Dean tilted his head and stared. Slowly reached a finger out and poked him. Sam's nose squished slightly under the pressure of his finger. Hungry, Sam. Hungry. He worked his mouth and a croaking groan leaked out. He flinched and pressed his lips tight.

Dean leaned his head on the bed and sniffed--Sam scent mixed and fought with the other scents. He smelled like the empty bottle under his curled arm, sour and sharp, and like sleep, and meat, all wrapped in the soothing smell he knew was Sam's. His mouth watered and he pulled back. He patted Sam's cheek and it was nice, soft where it was smooth, prickly and pleasant against his palm where it wasn't. But Sam wasn't moving so he moved instead. Something ran over the floor and Dean whirled towards the movement. Something black and many legged ran for the safety of the baseboard, but Dean got it first. He popped it in his mouth and crunched down, got a thick slick burst on his tongue that he swallowed down too fast. Food, but too little. I am. Hungry. He looked for more food.

Sam dragged himself out of bed and wished desperately he was still asleep--his head was pounding, his mouth so dry it felt like it was lined with tarpaper. Oh fuck, oh fuck…the front of his head was *begging* to be smashed in and fuck, right now, it seemed like a good idea. He hung off the edge of the bed feeling sorry for himself—and remembered Dean. Oh God. He'd left him alone--

He found Dean in the kitchen, as he watched, Dean's hand slapped down over an oil black beetle, lightning fast he lifted it to his mouth—before Sam could move, Dean bit down. Sam heard the little crunch, and his stomach fluttered with nausea. Dean looked up at Sam with a shy smile. He licked his lips.

"Dean! Uh--shit." Sam dropped down to the floor and before he could stop himself, he was sobbing. "Oh fuck…" He pressed his hands into his eyes but the tears came anyway.

Dean's eyes went wide and he scooted away from Sam, alarmed and only knowing to put distance between himself and unusual events. Sam reached out and he flinched from his touch, scrabbling backward until he slammed into the cabinets behind him.

Sam felt like the weight of—of---*everything*, was crushing him; the floor was smooth and cool under his palms, warmer where his head touched. He couldn't see anything but the speckled tiles and Dean's feet, and how the way he trembled made his toes twitch. With his hands and forehead pressed to the floor, Sam cried until his back and throat couldn’t take it anymore.

It hurt so much to admit that the person shaking to bits in his kitchen wasn't Dean. That no matter how much he wanted it to be, this was *not* the man who three years ago had stared Death in the face with bravery and Dean's unique brand of—of class, and the sheer bloody stubborn belief that something—something good was going to come of what was happening to him.

Dean had given all he could to Sam, he always had, with no expectation of return, for no other reason than he was Dean and looking out for Sam was his job. And this…was not Dean. This person couldn't give anything, had nothing to give….

Sam leaned back and rubbed his face dry. All right, fuck this--he had to let that other person go for now, and do whatever he could to help his brother adjust, do whatever he could to help him be *Dean* again. And if he never came back to who he used to be, it didn't matter…he had his brother again.

"Come on, dude, I won't hurt you, promise." He smiled, feeling it kind of dip and slide but it must have been enough because Dean gave him the same heart breaking little smile he'd given him earlier and crawled forward. He let Sam slide a hand up his arm, let it rest on his shoulder. Sam laughed a little and Dean flinched but didn't move away. "You need a hair cut," Sam said, and tried to keep the quaver out of his voice.

"What do you remember Dean?" Sam pointed at himself. "You remember I'm your brother right?" He moved his hand to palm the back of his neck, and Dean jerked away. It almost felt like Dean had punched him instead…Sam bit down hard on disappointment and leaned away but Dean hesitantly reached out.

Sam flinched inwardly, surprised that Dean was making an effort to touch him, hopeful…terrified that maybe he'd had gotten the signals mixed up again.

He swallowed, throat thick with anxiety but Dean only (thankfully) patted his wrist. Sam said, "Yeah. My brother, that's who you are and I love you."

Den sat back and stared at his mouth. His lips parted. He made a visible effort but nothing came, a hiss, a moan, nothing else. He took a deep breath, slowly and deliberately hissed, "Sam." It was wobbly, rough, and barely audible but definitely a word, definitely his *name*. Sam whooped and without thinking, grabbed him into a hug--

Dean tried to twist out of Sam's arms; the motion threw him back to slam against the floor, hitting so hard his head bounced against it with a frightening crack--his arms thudded against the floor as he shook. Dean writhed and howled, oblivious to Sam shouting his name, over and over…

"Dean!"

Dean heard Sam call his name but too late, Dean was gone from there, dropping through blackness….

Sam, Dean, brother, love, hate Father Mother baby child protect live life deathfirepainbrother family no. No—

His head swam and heat blasted him in slow motion waves and his skin was frying, he could hear it crackling, smell it cooking. He could feel his bones being twisted into horrible new forms. His tortured skin cracked open and bones broke with wet pops and something laughed and played with the new shapes and told him how very pretty he was, how very brave and it felt…good.

Sam freaked—only life long lessons kept him from completely panicking. He tried to hold Dean down, desperate to make sure he didn't hurt himself. Dean was still pumping out that high-pitched, unearthly whine that seemed impossible for a human throat to produce, twisting across the floor and dragging Sam with him. He wrapped himself around Dean like a monkey, and all the while Dean tore at himself and horribly, in the middle of what seemed god awful *torture*, he'd come. That'd shocked Sam stupid, almost drove him away from Dean, but he held on through the sheer stubborn belief Dean needed him to. He didn't know what else to do anyway. What if Dean didn't come back? What if Dean went crazy, completely nuts and left him alone again? What if—

A flailing limb whacked him hard in the face and knocked him back to reality. He grabbed it and held on. "Son of a *bitch* Dean! Knock this shit OFF!"

Dean came out of it all at once, "Sam…" His voice was rough and scratchy but not as weak—even better, he *felt* Dean relax against him, even push into his hold for a few precious moments before putting inches between them.

"Dean, God…Dean…" He choked up and fell silent. Dean was staring at Sam like he was the sun. He looked awe-struck and amazed and it was almost enough to make Sam loose it.

Night filled up all the too bright corners and it was soothing but he missed something…Sam wasn't in the room, or on the bed…he couldn't tell where Sam was and not being able to tell made him nervous. Dean sniffed hard, trying to track him by scent but his nose might as well have been stuffed with cotton. He couldn’t smell anything, he couldn't taste anything, he could barely hear anything. Felt like whole parts of his world had been stripped away. Home was an echo; Sam was an echo…echoes.

Sam…he blinked and Sam appeared and relief flooded him, made his tense muscles relax. He was saying something…Dean tried hard to hear him but his voice faded into silence.

When he first came out of hell, everything seemed to be happening at once, all the time. It was blinding and deafening and he constantly needed to shut down, to figure it all out, pick through the snarled strands and pull together the ones that made sense. It was easier to do now, but left him feeling less connected. Sam was more careful now; most times his touches were light and quickly gone—so much better now than when nearly every touch sent him into overload…he laid down where Sam wanted him to. He still wanted to slip under the bed into darkness but he willed himself to be still. He let Sam put his arm around him even though it hurt, it hurt a lot. What was important was making Sam happy. Sam was light, Sam was air and food and sleep and…and everything, and his job was to make him happy, his sole purpose in life was to take care of Sam, be what he needed.

The bed dipped with Sam's weight and Dean slipped into sleep with his scent anchoring him, his touch making nerves under his skin flare and burn but it was bearable now…he ground his teeth, he flinched and moaned and drifted deeper….

"This should be different…" A hulking, dark shape full of odd angles and too many eyes and mouths stroked a circle on his belly, pressed lightly.

He felt something go into him, so cold he screamed. It slid into his chest and sawed through bone, down, down, twisting until it surfaced again through the muscle of his hip. It skated over skin, separating muscle and bone, sifting strands, twisting and deforming him. He screamed until his throat was raw, screamed and screamed until a rough scaled hand reached into his mouth and snapped his jaw. Blood flooded his throat and he gagged.

"Fix that," the dark voice said and he was hoisted up, held by his legs until his throat cleared.

Down again and it was harder to breath. Something thick and black squeezed into him, filling every bit of him with cold fire that twisted and pulled at him from inside. Bones and skin and organs snapped back into place and it was worse than being taken apart.

"Who are you? You're nothing. Nothing. No one…" Who are you?

Pictures tumbled through his mind, himself, Sam…postcards from a life, shuffled like…like cards, like game pieces. Nothing This happened to him then, this happened here, this was a life torn up into pieces and crammed every which way back into his head, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. No one--

"Who are you? Who are you? Who are you? You're—"

"Dean—Dean Winchester!" It's his name, it's his and nothing can take that away from him. Nothing can….

Sam had been hunched under the hot spray of the shower for a few minutes, counting every one as a grateful groan slipped out of his mouth. He couldn't help moaning, his body sucked up the heat, as hot water pounded against the gnarled knot of muscle at the top of his spine.

Fifteen minutes, he was sure that he could leave Dean on his own for fifteen minutes. He seemed more settled now, his nights were quieter. He slept on top of the bed now with very little coaxing and that had to be a positive sign. That *was* a positive sign. He tolerated touch, and sometimes, even seemed to want it…although in ways that made Sam sweat blood. He'd confined himself to sleeping on the couch for the time being. It was safer that way. Sure, sleeping on that couch, scoliosis was a danger but so was the way he felt when Dean squeezed so close to him in the night that he was almost under him, warm breath stroking and tickling his skin, warm ass pressed into the cradle of Sam's hips and—fuck! Just…fuck.

He needed either a more comfortable couch, or some way to rein in a rampaging libido. This…this wanting was a sickness, an evil kind of sickness lodged inside him along with everything else….

He leaned against the shower wall, arms extended, head hanging down, and tried to concentrate on the water rushing over him. Biggest positive point for the day--he could take a shower and not worry that Dean was out there chopping at himself, or trying to dig a hole through the floor, or eating…yeah. Best not to dwell on that. Anyway, Dean *was* changing every day, improving. It really was so much better now.

He washed himself, enjoying the soft sweep of soap over his skin. He rubbed his arms, worked up more lather and soaped up his chest…he didn't completely ignore the fact he started to get hard. What was it, like a million years since he'd last got laid? Or paid any kind of attention to himself? A really long time….he glanced at the door and wondered if he dared….

He really wanted to. He slid a soapy hand down his dick, cradled himself and huffed. His dick took an instant interest but…he slid his hand up and down his shaft a time or two…Dean might get anxious if he stayed in the shower any longer. He sighed deeply and let the water rinse away the soap and washed his hair until his erection subsided. Shit.

He wrapped a towel around his waist and headed to the bedroom, stopping in the living room first. Dean was cross-legged on the couch, a bowl of popcorn in his lap. He was flinging kernels into the air and catching them, and it was just such a Dean thing that Sam had to stop and watch. It was so…normal for him. He smiled watching his brother's total concentration on the flying popcorn—he didn't miss once, not a single kernel.

Dean snapped another bit of popcorn out of the air with a click of teeth and jumped when he caught sight of Sam, momentarily looking slightly guilty for some reason and then...he stared, his eyes grew wide and he blinked…his mouth opened slowly and a pink tongue tip swept his lower lip. "Hi…"

"Ah, hi—be right back!" Sam felt a flush wash over his face and hurried into the bedroom. He carefully closed the door and leaned against it with a deep sigh, pressing all his weight on it. Dean had looked at him with the same intense concentration as he had looked at his popcorn, and that should have made Sam laugh but…that tongue, that mouth…

*Fuck me* He pressed his palm against his dick through the towel. This was horrible, and really? He desperately needed some stress relief. Because he shouldn't have so much trouble controlling thoughts like this, he'd done so well before Dean was taken, burying them down deep and now…shit, they were running helter-skelter all over his mind like perverted fawns out to play….

His hand worked its way under the towel, wrapped around his dick like it had a mind of its own and tightened, ran down the shaft and up…"uh." His eyelids fluttered shut. Just this once, just real quick and totally thinking about—about—anyone but—

In the drawer in the night table, under a pile of receipts he'd meant to file, an outdated TV Guide and for some reason, a take out menu, he found a neglected, slightly sticky bottle of vanilla scented lube…he squirted some in his palm, took a few tentative strokes before settling into a good familiar rhythm and sighed. God yes…he should stop and lock the door. Really should, Dean always had had a very tenuous understanding of what closed doors meant—at least as they applied to Sam. But it felt really good, and it'd been a while and the shiver it sent up his spine felt so…he concentrated on the feel, the heat, the tension, spreading, pulling him tight. Muscles clenched and relaxed, he rose up on his toes and pushed in and out of his hand and some worry about Dean managed to work its way past the cloud of lust muffling his senses. Listen out for Dean, what if he walked in on—"ah!" He shuddered and his dick drooled thick and warm in his hand. Dean might walk in and…and…smile, yeah, that wet pink tongue tip dancing across his lip, making it gleam.

'Yeah, I'll help you. Let me.' Drop to his knees, kiss away the slick, lick it clean. Hot mouth…Sam threw his head back, his back arched and he groaned…Dean opened his mouth and the smooth wet heat sank down on him, the head of his dick nudged the back of—

Sam gave a short surprised yelp and came so hard everything went black…he swayed, swallowing moans that made his throat ache. He glanced at the door—still closed, thank God. Jesus, he must have lost his mind. What the fuck was he thinking—if Dean had walked in—

He tried to ignore the simultaneous sharp stab of lust and flaming guilt the thought brought.

He practically threw his clothes on, yanking on a Henley and almost popping the buttons in his rush, shoving his arms through the sleeves of one of the flannels piled up on the end of the bed. Guilt made him feel like he was some sixteen year old trying to get the hell out of someone's bedroom before their parents realized they wasn't alone up the stairs. A glance at the bedside clock told him he'd been shut up inside the bedroom a little longer than he was really comfortable leaving Dean alone…he yanked his fingers through damp hair, swallowed, and strolled out casually to watch the movie with Dean but he wasn't there—shit! Sharp fanged panic bit into him. "Dean?"

The front door was locked; no one was in the kitchen, so that left…he rapped on the bathroom door. "Hey Dean, you okay in there?"

Dean quickly responded, loudly, clearly, urgently, "Sam."

Sam laughed in relief. "Okay, okay. Just checking you're all right. I'll be in the living room."

When Dean came out, he wandered over to the living room window, leaned against the pane and stared into the street below. The afternoon sunlight was vicious—it's glowing light illuminated just how ill Dean looked, how gray and drawn his skin was. Even as tall as he was, as broad as his shoulders were, in that light, he looked shrunken--almost fragile. Sam felt a fresh jolt of fear. Dean looked like he was slipping away again, drying up and wearing out….

They needed to get out of the apartment. *He* needed to get out—it would be good for Dean too. Fresh air, a change of view…Dean needed to get back out in the world around them....

It took a bit to get Dean dressed for outside. Digging through that bag in the closet to find Dean's boots had been strange; Sam still felt unsettled. Looking at Dean's stuff—*their* stuff--from before, had been like looking through a cloudy window into the past. Sam turned on the concrete stair of the apartment and looked back up at their apartment window. Upstairs, scattered over the bed, was all the evidence he had of the life he'd--they'd--lived before: the journal, some books, notes scribbled on various pieces of paper, some tools, that frankenstein EMF meter….

And here they were, outside—because he had this brilliant idea about fresh air, and sun, and…there was Dean, still at the apartment door, and Sam cursed himself for an idiot.

Dean was frozen against the closed door, his face a mask of barely suppressed terror. He was so white his eyes looked emerald green in contrast. His arms were splayed against the wood and it looked like he was trying to force himself between the molecules of the door and back inside.

"Dean?" He carefully laid a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder and felt the shiver all the way up his own arm. "Shit—let's go back inside. Come on, just--let go of the doorknob and we can go back inside, all right?" Sam slid his hands around Dean's face, cupped his cheeks and touching Dean like that should make him feel guilt, right? Well, fuck that. Dean needed him, need to feel grounded. Sam knew it, could see it in his eyes.

Dean shook his head jerkily, but emphatically, 'no'. Sam sighed. "All right then, let's get lunch, okay? But if I think it's getting to be too much…" Dean looked at him from the corner of his eye and after a few seconds nodded. Sam smiled. "Okay, that's good, then." Dean's hands came up, quickly flitted over Sam's, who dropped his own hands reluctantly.

They walked towards the café Sam frequented and all along the way Dean's head swung from side to side, his chin up and nostrils flaring as if he was testing the air. He hesitated, started to quiver and Sam was just about to stop them when Dean reached out and tapped Sam's hand. Sam automatically closed his hand around Dean's wrist. He heard him sigh, a soft, barely audible shudder of breath. That little sign of trust, that sigh of relief, made Sam's chest swell. Dean snorted softly. Sam glanced at him and Dean was smirking—exerted a little pressure on Sam's wrist and pulled forward, so forward they went.

Sam stopped near Café Savant and pointed. "Here it is, this is where we get lunch," and hesitated, waiting for Dean to say…something. He just crowded up against Sam's side, barely an inch between them and gazed around, silent, so tightly strung and achingly alert, it almost hurt to watch. "Let's get a seat," Sam said, feeling defeated, and also ridiculous for feeling so. It had been way too much to hope for, to get some sort of positive reaction from his brother, but still…he couldn't help hoping. Shit, what they'd accomplished so far was amazing.

They sat at an outside table, but one that was in the shadow of the awning and butted against a wall. He figured Dean would need it and yeah, he sat himself so that he could see the street, with his back against the wall. Sam sat next to him, still holding Dean's wrist, fuck what it looked like. The street and small park across the way were in view, and while they waited for their orders, Dean watched the kids running around a small swing set. He smiled…a tired, sad smile.

Above the sound of the kids playing, Sam became aware of an odd sound, a weird, twisting wail, rising and falling in the distance…it was coming from the direction of the park. No one else seemed to notice. Dean's eyes flicked from point to point on the street, but he seemed calm, if a little pale. Sam huffed. No one else *was* hearing it. That meant…Fuck. Fuck. Not this, not now….

A man burst from the park entrance and into the street. Bone white, razor thin shapes poured out of the park after him, flowing around and between the legs of bystanders. They howled, half wolf's call, half scream, as they chased down their prey. Hellhounds—Sam glanced at Dean, but he was staring blandly at some distant point, unaware. Thank God, at least not being under a curse anymore spared Dean the sight of them, the sound of them.

In the street, traffic shrieked to a halt, the man stumbled and went down under the white wave of the hellhounds. They tossed their heads, needle filled jaws pulling something grey out of the man's chest, ripping it to shreds, diving into the solid earth, pulling the shreds of grey with them…cries of 'ambulance, heart attack,' reached his ears. His mind was months, years away, all he saw was blood, smelled death, heard screams of pain…he saw blood spray, and gobbets of flesh spatter the street but he was the only one to see it. The 'gift' of living in the doorways between the worlds….

Eyes stinging, he hung his head and concentrated hard on his coffee, feeling like the mug in his hands was about to shatter, his grip was so tight. A few waiters and some patrons of the café ran to the curb to watch. Sam stayed put, snaked his hand out and latched onto Dean's wrist again. His jaw worked hard as he struggled to justify not moving, not…he couldn’t have saved that man; he knew how powerless he was against something like that, there was nothing he could have done, nothing….

Dean was shaking a bit, his cup chattered against the table top and Sam's head jerked up—a little coffee slopped over the edge and splashed against the table.

"Hey Dean, is it okay if we call it a day? I'm a little tired." Dean grinned lop-sided at him, like he got exactly what Sam was doing. Sam glanced away toward the street again and that prickly, unpleasant blanket of energy settled over him. He turned and found himself eye to eye socket with a lone hellhound. Its jaw dropped and he had the distinct feel of laughter in his mind. Dean made an odd sound, his eyes locked on Sam like he was the only thing on the planet. A horrible suspicion formed…"Do you…is there something you're seeing, something--?"

Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam, and slowly shook his head. He glanced about, and jerked his head toward the crowd with a questioning look, but…there was something in his eyes, his face….

"No, I meant…never mind." No, of course he didn't. There was nothing here but the customers, himself and Dean, and a tragedy unfolding a couple of blocks away. Anything else was a hallucination. And that hallucination was sniffing heavily in Dean's direction, its head so close that Sam felt his heart clench, in fear….

Sam snapped his fingers and the hallucination whipped back toward him, fast as a striking cobra. He spoke to it inside his mind, forming thoughts like knives and shoving them into the narrow bone blade of its head. Beat it, you bony freak. You know I can send you back. It'll hurt like a mother fucker, I'll make sure of that..

The thing skittered away like a nervous greyhound but Sam still felt its laughter shivering in his head. It was eyeing Dean and licking its ivory jaws. Eyeing Dean as it backed away, still laughing, until it sank into the ground like fog.

Dean opened his mouth and with a voice rusty with disuse, managed to croak out, "Home? Now?"

Sam stared at him, stiff with shock. That had been a—a sentence; hell, close enough to being one…"Dean…" Hope was a bright, burning thing in his chest, filling him, chasing away the guilt, chasing away anything but wonder at what his brother had done.

Dean talked—really talked--to him!

Dean was sitting on the couch looking as damn uncomfortable on it as Sam did. His knees were almost up around his ears, but as usual he was completely mesmerized by the TV, staring as if it held the answer to everything, his forehead wrinkled, lips parted in concentration…occasionally he'd mouth the words being spoken….

"42", Sam said and Dean whipped around, eyes wide and startled. Burst into a grin as he saw it was Sam and relaxed. "Hey."

"Hi. Sam." He smiled and glanced away, caught again by something bright flashing by on the television. Sam sat next to him and dropped a wrinkled old paper bag down on the table. It was from a time when paper bags could hold more than a gallon of milk and a package of Oreos without shredding, had been folded and refolded so many times it was almost as soft as chamois.

"Hey, I thought maybe you might want to see these. There aren’t many…" And all of them from before he'd left for college….

Sam dumped the bag out on the table and pictures slid out over the table top. "Most of these are from way after—after Mom. Some Dad had in his storage unit, some we got out of the house, that time we went back…anyway. Look, here's one of me and you—remember this house in Maryland? You taught me to ride a bike here. This one." His finger traced over a red bike, a two wheeler that Dean had showed up with one day. It been more rust than red but Dean made it work over the course of a few days. He cleaned that bike, oiled frozen parts, patched and filled the tires, worked harder than a lot of ten year olds would have done to get that bike in shape for him, and Sam had learned to ride it on the street in front of that house. Dean took the picture from him and stared, his own finger tracing over the edges of the photograph. Anyone else would have missed the little shrug he made…he didn't remember.

"Um, here's one, let me see…" Sam flipped it over and a large childish script spelled out Maine and the year, he knew it was his handwriting but didn't remember doing it, or why. "We had a cat when we stayed here…stupid." Shaking his head, Sam could almost hear himself pitching a tantrum over that cat. He remembered how miserable he'd made everyone, Dean especially, since he'd been stuck running interference between him and Dad, as usual. He'd been pissed like a motherfucker about that too, but he'd helped to feed it, kicking in money for cat food and stuff and there'd been nothing more said about it. When a few weeks later, they'd rather suddenly had to leave, Dean had convinced a girlfriend to keep it, and let Sam cry it out on him and never once said I told you so.

Dean looked at him, his face screwed up in concentration, searching Sam's eyes for something…"Maine…" He closed his eyes and after a moment repeated, "Maine." His voice was rough, distant. "Don't know." Eyes open again, squinting at Sam, he said, more a question than a statement, "Dad left. Puca."

"Yes--right, he left for a couple of weeks, right after the cat thing. You were sixteen, remember? You called me a girl, getting all emotional over a cat." Sam laughed, "Tried to get me to name it Bastard."

Dean gave him an uncertain half smile. "Yeah…?" He stroked the photo again, and dropped it for one of their dad. "Dad…young." Sam nodded and tried to keep the bright excitement he was feeling in check, afraid that if he let it show, Dean would shut down. Right now he was fairly relaxed, he was speaking, sitting next to him without flinching or…without that look that made him wonder sometimes if touch was actually painful for Dean.

This right here, the two of them just being normal, being family--this was nice.

Dean picked up another photo and Sam felt his breath catch. Dean turned it this way and that, almost put it down before he inhaled sharply. "Oh…" He lifted the photo again, held it up to the light. It was a Polaroid print, the color gone slightly reddish with age but still true enough to be able to tell the girl leaning against the gleaming black car was a blonde, and she looked happy, smiling at the camera, holding a fat baby in her arms. "Oh, your…our Mom. It's Mom." He stared at the picture, his leg jogging nervously. He placed the print carefully back on the table.

"Are you okay?" Sam started to gather the pictures together, and Dean stopped him.

"Look…I want. You…remind me. About us," he swallowed hard, "please," he said, grimaced as his voice gave out.

"Sure, sure—I'm just going to get—you need something to drink, I think." Sam jumped up quickly, he could feel a tide of emotion about to break and figured letting go in front of Dean was not the smart thing to do.

In the kitchen Sam wiped at his face, and pressed open hands over his mouth hard, to muffle gasps he couldn't lock inside of himself—let tears run freely for a minute as he pulled himself back together. He felt they'd hit a breakthrough-- maybe Dean was recovering memories. Sam was pretty sure he hadn't led him---much, anyway.

Sam took a deep shaky breath, let go of the fear that had been growing--that he'd never really have Dean back. When he was sure he could move without toppling, he grabbed some beers from the lower shelf of the fridge, grabbed a bag of chips from the counter and walked back out to the living room.

Dean had one arm spread across the back of the couch, his head tilted back against it too, when Sam came back out. He looked content, knees spread, taking up most of the couch and crowding Sam out—sitting like Dean, actually.

He was holding the picture of Mom leaning against the impala, holding Dean. "Sam…" he held up the photo. "Where's—?" he waved the picture at him.

"The car?" Fuck—he was asking about the car! Sam grinned from ear to ear. "Are you worried about your car?" Dean gave him a look that definitely said 'duh'. "Fuck Dean, you know I took care of her. She's safe. I never even drove her after getting here, put her right in a garage. We can…we can go see her if you want."

Dean nodded thoughtfully—not quite the excitement Sam had hoped for, but he was interested and that—was another fucking miracle for today. He shoved Dean's legs to the side, and flopped down. Dean grabbed the chips, and gifted Sam with a real grin. "Thanks. Chips." His eyes lit up again. "Beer. Sam." He shook his head. He put the chips down, reached out and patted Sam gently on the cheek. "Sam."

Sam grinned despite the pain in his chest. "Yeah. You're welcome."

"Listen, Dean's getting better, and it's time I came back to work—past time."

"Dude…you're good if you need a few more days but yeah, it'd be great to have you back in here. The girls are all ganging up on me."

Sam could hear Danny's outraged yelp in the back ground and smiled. "Yeah, don’t ask me why but I miss you guys." Raph chuckled, a low rumble that made the hair on the back of Sam's neck try to rise and he thought it was way, way past time he got laid if he couldn't ignore Raph anymore…he heard a low cough behind him…for a second, it sounded like a tiger was in the room with him. The hair on his neck rose for an entirely different reason now as the monkey brain kicked in.

He turned and Dean was watching him, head tilted and face blank…he smiled blandly when he caught Sam's eye.

Work. Sam was more than ready to go back--the problem was, he was very reluctant to bring Dean to any crime scenes, afraid of possibly triggering memories like those that had kept him under the bed for weeks and had sent him into screaming fits. He'd progressed so far from that--found more of his old self day by day. Sam didn't want to risk a reoccurrence, but he also didn’t want to leave Dean with a stranger who wouldn't understand how to…talk to him, handle him. He'd just have to…find a way to work it out with everyone. He was just going to have to twist the boundaries of friend and employer way, way hard and hope they weren't about to break.

Dean in the office actually worked. Dean in the office worked *damn* well. The crew adopted him in a way that was…well, slightly annoying actually.

For the first few days, Dean had more or less crouched at Sam's desk, silent as a stone, observing. His stillness hadn't worried Sam overmuch, Dean needed the time to process new changes and by the end of the first week, Dean knew just who ran the show.

Danny he treated with an offhand kind of friendliness that came from dismissing him as a possible threat, he treated Cassandra the same. Dana, he respected. He was careful with her, maybe even a bit afraid of her. Watching the two interact, Sam realized that Dean treated her a little bit like he'd treated Dad…he looked to her for direction and basked in any kind of approval he got from her. Dean had definitely pegged her as top dog in the office.

Raphael was a different story. Dean was always just a bit on edge around him, wary and watchful. Whether it was because he associated Raph with the time he first came home, all the disorientation and pain, or whether it was something else--when Raph was around, Dean stood taller, looked more alert…more aggressive. In fact, when Raph was around Dean looked more like--*Dean*.

Dean picked up on the office routine—he took quickly to simple filing, and answering the phone, and had learned not to curse out aggressive or disgruntled clients….

Dana was very vocal with how pleased she was with how well he fit in, and Dean seemed to bloom under her attention…and like almost any female over the age of fourteen, she was totally under his spell. Naturally, Sam thought with just the smallest edge of exasperation. That was *Dean*too. His brother had always been able to charm the birds out of the trees and the pants off of any woman he wanted to. Cassandra, whose conversations with *him* tended to center around 'Jesus, get a haircut' and 'oh my God, you're not really wearing those shoes in public' and 'have you thought about doing something about those moles?' was a *completely* different person when it came to Dean. Dean got pampered and petted and fed home-made goodies. There was nothing Dean could do wrong, Dean was priceless.

And Sam swore he was not in the least bit jealous, not at all. Even if Dean was getting treated like the freakin' Little Prince.

"Dean-o! Look at you, filling out man, lookin' good. You're getting to be almost as good looking as me." Raph grinned and slapped Dean on the back, looking up at him from his five foot eight inches. He was togged out in hazmat suit, tight across his broad chest; he had a respirator slung around his neck. He winked at Dean, ignoring the blank stare he got in return and turned to Sam. "Hey Boss…this site? Sounds weird as shit. I'm not happy about this one." He fished a green and white bandana out of one of the coveralls deep pockets and tied it around his head, tossed another to Sam.

Sam covered his hair before he shook his head. "Yeah. It's a bad one. Real bad."

Dean turned from where he was filing receipts and stared at Sam. "What?"

Sam sighed. "It's just—kind of rough. Big clean-up, I'll tell you more when I get back." Dean looked frustrated; Sam could tell Dean knew he was telling him to stay put, stay safe—and he was well aware how much Dean hated it.

"Don’t worry dude, we'll be back soon. I got your brother's back, okay?" Raphael winked, shot him with thumb and forefinger and wheeled out the door. Sam looked back at Dean and felt a jolt—Dean was looking at Raph's back, lip lifted in a snarl, and his eyes…Sam blinked…Dean's eyes were green, just an average green, not the icy, eerily luminescent jade they'd seemed to be for a second.

Dean shoved the file in his hand into the drawer and slammed it shut. He turned a stubborn, pugnacious look on Sam that made his heart sink. Oh-oh.

"I'm going with. Now."

"Dean, I told you, soon, I'll take you soon—"

"Fuck that. Take me now. Mean it." His voice started to give out under the force he was using to push his words out. He grabbed his jacket from the back of Sam's chair. "Not. Staying." It came out in a harsh growl as his voice finally gave, his eyes were flashing and anger stained his cheeks red.

Sam blushed too, part of him pissed off that his brother refused to cooperate. This job was more than a charnel house of a crime scene--it was exactly the kind of shit he was trying to keep Dean away from and the fucking universe kept *throwing* this shit in his path like it *knew*. There was another part of him though….

Hell. There was a part of him that found Dean being this kind of aggressive pushed his fucked up buttons like mad—it was just damn--*hot*. Sam closed his eyes and counted to ten. "Dean, look--"

Dean swept past him, snatched the bandana off his head and growled, too low for anyone but Sam to hear, "Don’t like the scarf," before leaving him in the doorway.

Cassandra looked up from her desk. "Danny's got an extra coverall in the van; Raph can ride in with him. 'Cause I don’t think your brother's going to want to share a ride with him…"

Sam glanced at her—he was kind of worried that she'd seen that look, but her expression just said, 'my boss is a total dork.' As usual.

Dean kept his eyes closed the whole way to the crime scene. He didn't want to look at Sam, didn’t want to see the anger Sam must be feeling at the way he'd rebelled, but he knew this about his brother--Sam had a tendency to not take the best care of himself, not the way he should. He missed small things, took risks that seemed not to be risks until you looked at the larger picture. Dean sighed. Sam was acting the way he thought Dean would…Dean shivered. The thought made his skin crawl for a moment. Yeah, well, Sam was wrong. It might have looked like he was taking wild risks, but Dean had always gotten as much intel as he could about a job before jumping in. Once they were traveling together again, that job had fallen to Sam--Sam was supposed to check the wind for them. In turn, his job was to see that Sam was covered.

Dad…Dad…was the one who'd taught him that. Scout out the situation first, but once you made a decision, commit to it. Jump in guns blazing. Talk or shoot—can't do both. He sniffed hard. Anyway, he was pretty sure it went something like that. Most important thing Dad taught him though, was to take care of Sam. He'd done that until it was impossible to do it, but now…he was back, ready to do his job. No one was taking his place at Sam's back, no one.

They were parked in front of the apartment before Dean risked opening his eyes and, yeah, as he expected, Sam was glaring at him. When he noticed Dean was staring at him, his face softened, those cat-eyes lost their narrowed, pinched look. Sam grabbed his shoulder, and squeezed. "Hey. It's okay. But you can't blame me for wanting to protect you, right?"

Of course he understood that. They'd always tried to protect each other, ever since Sam could walk and talk, and hold a weapon. It was just that…he'd been doing it longer than Sam had. It was his right to watch out for Sam, as much as it was his job.

The inside of the apartment smelled like Hell. Dean tired hard to cover his shock; the blood was *everywhere*, drying into black patterns over the floor, on the walls. There was another thick, cloying stink woven through it, an almost familiar, animal stench. It filled his nose, so heavy, he sneezed. For a moment he heard shrieks, screams…felt heat rising up under his feet, tasted ash filling his mouth, and then…ash gave way to a thick, sweet, coppery tang. He swallowed frantically to keep from drooling, sucked in his stomach to muffle its sudden moan of hunger. He wanted; he needed…Dean scrubbed the back of his hand over his mouth, wiping away saliva and rasping knuckles against his lips as hard as he could.

"Hey, hey—you going to hurl? Not in here buddy, not in here—you need to get out?"

And much as he hated to, he nodded, and let Raph lead him out into the hallway—he had to get away from that—that *smell*. Their paper-booted feet made swooshing noises as they shuffled down the hall, stopping when the air was clear of stink. Dean leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths and trying to control the tremors that shook him. He had no fucking clue what was wrong with him, why he'd reacted like…that.

"Hey." Raph's voice was soft, kind…concerned. "Deano. You okay, dude?" His hand was on Dean's arm, and he could feel the heat pouring out of it. Dean let Raph's scent cover the smell, instinctively reached up and grabbed the man's bicep, held on tight. He could feel the thick smooth roll of muscle. Raph was solid, hard. It was possible he could protect Sam…if it needed doing. He leaned forward, and Raph tucked his hand behind Dean's head. Dean drooped forward until his chin rested on Raph's shoulder easily, and he rubbed it on the thick muscle, rubbed until he could breathe again, until he smelled nothing but Raph, and cotton, and himself, and none of the other smell…and no hint of Sam.

He blinked when he realized what he was doing and tried to step back but Raph held his shoulders. He looked up into Dean's face with worried frown, shook him a little. "Better now?"

Dean nodded. "Ready. I'm. Okay now, really." He pushed away and smiled a little and Raph slapped him on the back.

"Good man."

When he came back in, Sam and Danny were starting to cleanup, the bleachy odor of cleaning solvents was strong…Raph adjusted Dean's , reached up and gave him a friendly slap to the back of the head. "Let's go—I'll show you what's what."

Dean took a long shaky breath and Sam glanced his way. Dean could read worry, and maybe something else in the way he stood, the way he held his head. Dean waved, and a thought, a memory, blinked into his mind—he gave Sam a thumbs up, and Sam laughed—he could hear it muffled by the disposable mask he wore. Dean smirked. It had been just the right thing to do to set Sam at ease. He'd remember that.

Dean turned to follow Raph, and shuddered. The smell had changed some since he'd run out. The apartment smelled of bleach, detergent, and lot less like food. Or rather, it smelt of rotten food and death, now. Underneath that was a sour, thick odor, that cloying, gamey, dark stench that had filled his nose and choked him when he'd first entered the apartment. He snorted, trying to clear his sinuses, get it out of his throat, but the scent was almost overpowering. It made him sneeze again, made his eyes water. It was thickest around where the bodies had lain, and he saw brindle and black bristles scattered across the congealing blood, most trapped in the largest pool of red. He wrinkled his nose at a scent he just noticed this close to the blood. The thing that had killed all these people had also pissed on them, and pissed somewhere in the apartment, he could smell urine over the odor of ruptured intestines. It made the smell of the blood much less important. He knew that odor….

Somewhere out there was a distinct threat to Sam and it took all his willpower not to tear out of the place and hunt it down, destroy it.

Sam worried a hangnail all the way back to the shop. He swore, this was--shit. The apartment, what happened in it—that was *just* the sort of thing he shouldn't be thinking about. What he should be doing, was tipping off the few hunters that lived in the city. This deal was nothing he was mentally equipped to handle anymore. Not the kind of thing he *did* anymore. Sure, sending a fledgling ghost on its way, that was nothing. Putting a simple calming spell over a murder scene…that was just a kindness for the people involved, no big deal. Anybody with a spell book, a few herbs, and good intentions could do that. He was no longer involved in—how had Dean put it when he'd burst back into his life six years ago—no longer in 'the family business'.

What they'd been called to deal with hadn't been just a horribly violent break-in. What had gone down in that apartment wasn't the work of a nutcase. He'd walked around the still visible outlines on the wooden floor, was able to plainly see signs of supernatural involvement—plain to him, anyway. The bodies might be gone but the claw marks on walls, at door and window frames, and on the floor where the bodies had been, plainly told a story….

He had no idea what sort of theory the police might have cobbled together concerning the events in that house, but it was pretty obvious what it was, to someone who *knew* what they were looking at. He'd bent and touched a finger to one of the deep, almost triangular grooves sliced into the floorboards and Dean had started—hissed like he'd been burned. Sam had looked up at him and wondered if Dean'd caught it too, understood, or remembered, what those claw marks through the blood meant.

There was no doubt, that family had been slaughtered by a werewolf. He'd leaned forward to sniff and under the sickly sweet rot smell of blood and other fluids, he'd barely been able to catch a faintly gamey, musky odor. In the tacky pools of blood, he'd seen a few stiff dark hairs; at first glance they'd looked liked paint brush bristles, but there was no mistaking what they were. The claw marks had probably been gouged into the floor when the beast had tried to scent-mark its food.

He felt like he was still in that place, still smelling death…maybe he should take another look, maybe find out more about--

No. He shook his head. No way. Maybe *nothing*. He'd pass it off to one of the hunters around and forget it. They'd clean up this mess without his help.

On the way back home that evening, Dean was jumpy and grouchy, pulling away when Sam tried to touch him. He grunted and flinched away like he hadn't for days, suspicious and so tense he vibrated. He kept watching Sam the way he'd watched Raph, from the corner of his eyes, muttering faintly, until finally Sam stopped him.

"What is it? You've been acting like a cat on coals since we left the job. Did something happen?" He unlocked their apartment door, and they did the shuffle-stop-shuffle they always did as each of them tried to step in front of the other and enter the place first.

Dean shook his head quickly. "No, nothing."

"You sure?" He managed to get in the door first, and squinted at Dean.

Dean glanced this way and that, anywhere but at him, before speaking. "Yeah…Raph. Is he your friend?"

"Well, yeah—my employee but I consider him a friend too. Why?" He turned on the lights, automatically scanning the room as he did; next to him Dean did the same.

"Raph likes you. He's…solid." Dean made a frustrated sound, his hands trying to help shape his words. "Safe. Um. He wants to make sure you're safe."

Sam nodded. "Sure, that's what we do for each other. We look out for each other on the job and—"

"That's my job," Dean snarled. "I keep you safe, and I don’t share." Almost at once his face fell. "I'm *supposed* to keep you safe. But…I can't. Not like—not yet." He smacked the side of his head. "Stupid, slow…this brain won’t fix fast enough."

"Hey! Don't do that." Sam grabbed his hand, curled his fingers around Dean's and squeezed just enough so he could feel it. "You're doing great, you're getting better and better every day. And you still do your job, you still keep me safe. You always do. I trust you to do that."

Den looked up at him. "Yeah?" He smiled at Sam's nod and huffed. "I'd try. Still…Raph. I don’t like him being in here so much." He tapped Sam's forehead gently, lips twisted in a wry grin, and Sam flushed a little. Dean shook his head and gave Sam a frown. "It's just not…right, you know? The way you look at him sometime. The way you—" Dean stopped and shrugged.

"I don't look at him any sort of way…it's not like that." Except it was a little. "Besides, Raph isn't—" Shit. What the fuck. Did he have to explain himself to his brother? And why was he even trying?

Dean smirked. "I know what Raph is—he's a friend. Danny, *he* wants something else. I watch him watch you. S'funny."

Sam's jaw dropped and he stuttered, "Um. What?" Did this conversation really just turn into a discussion of his possible sex life…with Dean claiming some sort of a say in it?

Sam tried to get comfortable on the couch, but the ache in his knees and the day's events kept running through his mind--in particular, Dean's attitude towards Raph and what he seemed to be implying about Sam's feelings towards Raph, and really, there was no need to feel *guilty* about it, damn it…his eyelids got heavy as he thought, and he slipped seamlessly into dreaming.

In his dream, he lay on the couch, trying to get comfortable, but the ache in his knees made that difficult, and what Dean had said kept replaying in his head as he drifted…he was almost completely asleep when he heard the bedroom door creak, and then the floor, as weight moved across it. He could feel Dean standing in front of him, looking down at him. He cracked his eyes and he saw Dean, his head turning towards the light from the bedroom, saw how it turned his eyes into flat coins of jade. He shifted again and jade bled into lemon yellow and then into the shade of green gold that Dean's eyes really were….

Dean eased carefully to his knees and Sam froze, afraid to breathe. Dean leaned into him and sniffed heartily, sniffed at his nose, his mouth, great deep breaths and let out a small sound and Sam was instantly, achingly, hard….

He bent closer and licked at Sam's jaw, his mouth—wet warmth exploded over his lips and throat. Sam tried to move, it was the right thing, he should move, he needed…he found he couldn't. He was paralyzed, the way you were in a nightmare, frozen in the moment, defenseless…Dean's nose moved over his neck, down, skating collarbone and sternum and then…a tap of tongue, a rough wet scrape of tongue over his nipple, testing, and then, torturing it to stand high and stiff, and Sam's already diamond hard dick jerked and wept in his boxers.

Dean moved away, and if Sam could have made a sound, it would have been a shout of disappointment. But…Dean chuckled, and hot gusts beat against Sam's tortured skin. Dean just slid lower, Sam breathed harder, and then…Dean made a satisfied sound and pressed his face against Sam's cotton covered dick, inhaling, inhaling greedily until finally, he pulled the cotton away and broke the spell, Sam could move. At least he thought he could until Dean opened his mouth….

Hot breath flooded his groin, and that tongue again, but pressed against his balls this time, stroking over delicate thin skin, lifting it to his lips…mouthing silky skin, sucking gently, the touch of teeth, soft, tender…Sam felt the warm drip of precome pool against his skin and…and…then Dean was on him, or he was in Dean. Dean was sucking on the head of his dick, drilling the tip of his tongue inside him, rolling the soaking head across his lips, his cheeks, back in his mouth, and Sam grit his teeth, a long, low moan broke through his fight against it anyway, and fuck, just--the overwhelming need to let go crawled up on him and he fought it, fought it, fought it--and lost. It felt wonderful to let go, let the feeling flood him, fill him, release him…

He woke up with a full body jerk and an aching hard-on and a tremendous feeling of guilt. His boxers were a little damp where his dick had pressed and leaked against the material and he cursed, and was grateful he was on the couch…alone. Dean's mouth. His lips had been so warm, so full and soft—hard to believe it was a dream. He lay still, his hand curled over his throbbing dick, too drained to move. Finally he dragged himself to his feet with a great sigh. It took a tremendous act of will not to shove his shorts down around his knees and jerk off right there. He tip-toed to the closed bedroom door, and forced himself to go past it. He shut the bathroom door, and after a second, locked it.

And then, kind of like a bad joke, Ruby came back.

It was on a Saturday, and they'd spent most of that day doing laundry in the basement of their apartment building, because you could go to hell and rescue your brother, you could alert the right people to a den of hungry werewolves and send a reluctant ghost to its last reward but still, coffee ran out, milk went bad, laundry piled up, and underwear got scarce. So….

Doing laundry wasn't something that Sam hated but it'd always bored Dean to tears, and a bored Dean was a really fucking annoying Dean. Had been. It was…different now.

*This* Dean was fascinated by the tumbling clothes in the dryers, seemed to like the warmth they spilled. Sam told himself it was fine, that it didn't worry him when Dean did stuff like that, when he acted…off center. He watched Dean staring into the little glass port and his chest tightened painfully. Dean had both hands pressed to the metal on either side of the glass port, his brows wrinkled, and frowning slightly. And just at the moment Sam felt panic lodge in his throat, Dean lifted his head and caught Sam's eyes and smiled, and the sharp knot twisting him up loosened. His brother shrugged and said, "It's like watching the most boring show ever. Shit, doing laundry still sucks ass." He stood. "Thought after spending all that time in hell, even doing boring shit would be…interesting? Comforting? But…" He shrugged again and grinned. "Guess not."

Sam was rocked by conflicting emotions—shock, surprise, a wild, thrilled, rocketing kind of relief and hope—it was like stepping through a door and being greeted by his brother—*his* Dean—he laughed harder than the statement probably warranted, but it just felt so fucking *good*, and Dean watched him, grinning like he'd won some kind of prize by making Sam laugh.

After that, time passed comfortably, Sam shoving clothes into the washer and then the dryer, Dean helping to fold dry clothes, which mostly meant he rolled them into careless balls and dropped them in the basket…just like normal. Sam was even relaxed enough to sing, or try to…some old song his dad used to like.

Dean crinkled his nose. "You still can't sing for crap—" He stopped, all playfulness melted away. He stared at the floor, pale and fearful.

Sam swallowed down a pinprick of sadness. Dean. For every couple of steps forward….

He was still so wary, like he was afraid to insult Sam for some reason…it was all right. Dean would get over that eventually—he had to get over that. Sam dropped the sweat shirt he'd unconsciously balled up in his hands, reached out to Dean. "Hey, it's okay you know, you can say I suck at singing, not like I don't know it's true—" A cold buzz of energy made the hair on his arms stand. Who the fuck….

"Hello Sam." She strutted around the folding table to face him and smiled, blue eyes crackling in a pale freckled complexion, long blonde curls bouncing as she walked.

It figured. Just when he thought things were getting better, too. "What the fuck do you want?"

"Hey, I just thought I was helping, don’t blame me if you didn't get…" Ruby stopped and looked curiously at Dean. "Who's this—a civilian? You dating now—?" And did a double take. "Dean?" she gasped, and then wrinkled her nose. "What the fu—" She stopped, gulped, and started backpedaling. "Hi—hi. Dean. "

Dean stared, his lip lifted a little and bristled like a pissed off pit bull. "What is it?" he snapped. He took a step forward and growled, "What does it want?"

Sam instinctively pushed the demon behind him, and that just pissed Dean off even more. His green eyes were snapping as he took another step forward, almost running into Sam's outstretched arm. "It's just Ruby, Dean. No one important."

"Hey! I'm standing right here. Besides. I'm the one who told you how to get him back! I have to say," she peeked around Sam's shoulder, and smirked, "he sure has changed."

He stepped away from her, and grabbing Dean, put the folding table between them. "Yeah, funny thing that—three years in hell will do that to you. Bitch. Three. Years." Sam glared, his jaw working, cat's eyes narrowed and furious. "Three motherfucking years—" He heard—almost felt--a low growl at his back, felt heat as Dean crowded against his back.

"Well, it wasn't like you were weeping and wailing and mourning your brother. You pretty much laid half of Brooklyn that second year."

Sam stilled. Rage swept him in a cold wave, filled his veins with ice. He was not going to smack her down in front of Dean, but he wasn't powerless. He could do—this—pushed himself inside her mind, spoke to her. I'll kill you. I'll pull you out of that corpse and make it so you're dead forever. He could feel Dean's eyes on him, feel his heart pound where he was pressed against him. "Tell me what you want," he said out loud.

She gasped and staggered a little, like she'd been dropped from a height. A stray thought belonging to her brushed the surface of Sam's mind…'How…how did you learn to do that without—'

Her eyes were wide and scared, her lip trembled before she said aloud, "I…I told you, I don’t want anything from you. Just…thought I'd drop in, check on you…and remind you if you need me, I'm here for you boys. Whenever you need me." She struggled to pull her cocky attitude back on, it sat on her like an ill-fitting sweater. She winked at Dean, and grinned when he hissed and flinched away. "You're cute—cuter than you used to be."

She wheeled around and left the laundry room, Sam caught the faintest whiff of sulfur under the warm scent of fabric softener and detergent.

"It was that demon, wasn't it? I remember—what did it want? Why are you angry?"

Dean growled again, so deep it vibrated through Sam's body. Sam swallowed. It was—he didn't even want to think how hot he found it. He shook his head. "You don’t remember Ruby? Good. Don’t worry about her. She's not important." Not anymore.

Dean took his words completely at face value and assured Sam, "I won't. But what did it mean about you? It said—"

Sam turned and wrapped his hands over Dean's shoulders, shook him gently. "Hey. She's a demon. Demons lie. They all lie. Most important lesson--never listen to a demon."

"But it said it did something to help you get me back, if that wasn't a lie, why would it lie about—" Dean looked at Sam. "Were you glad to have me gone? Were you glad to get free of that…that life?"

"No! Never, never. I needed you, okay? I needed you when you were gone and I need you now--you're my brother. You matter to me, okay? *Okay*?"

Dean shoved Sam's arm off his shoulder and it stung, but…he let Dean move away from him. "Okay. Okay, I get it. You too, Sam. Sam is…you're that important to me, too."

Dean thought about what the demon had said. Yeah, demons lied, but he knew they also loved to use threads of the truth to spin a lie. He shouldn't even be angry that Sam had sex with people while he was being ripped apart in hell…it really wasn't his business what Sam did, who he fucked, and Sam sure as hell wasn't supposed to stop living while Dean was down there….

Hell. Sex was…important. He liked sex too. Before he was dragged into the pit, sex was part of life, the good part. But they used that against him, just like they used love, and loneliness, and anger against him there….

Fuck. The more he thought about it, the more it hurt and…he rubbed his head. It was getting too confusing to think. Time to shut down for a bit….

The next day, Sam came home with a couple of boxes of salt. Dean watched him curiously, followed behind him as he spilled salt in thin lines at each window sill, and then pressed duct tape down over the lines. He lifted an eyebrow at Dean and smirked. "Permanent protection, dude. Won't have to re-lay these every day, right?"

Dean shrugged, a furrow wrinkled his brow. "Protection…right…"

"You remember? Every night, no matter where we were, Dad had us lay down salt, at windows, and at the doors…you do remember, don't you?" Sam carefully poured a thin perfect line across the threshold, the only other entrance to the apartment. As the last white crystals filled in the line, Dean felt a shattering explosion in his head. He bit down hard on a gasp of pain, for one brief moment he was paralyzed and then, he moaned, unable to hold the pain at bay….

"Hey, what's wrong—one of those headaches—shit! Dean?" Sam was holding his hand and looking frightened. "Dean, is this—do these hurt?"

Dean watched too as red lines raced over his skin, blowing up and disappearing again, fading to ivory and then to nothing. He gazed at Sam and shook his head. "No." The scars didn't hurt at all…it was his head that hurt, his chest ….

When the last of the lines faded, so did the pain shrieking in his head, faded enough that he could handle it, push it into the same box with everything else. He turned his hand this way and that, staring at the thin white lines still evident on his wrists, between his fingers. "What...are they?"

Sam narrowed his eyes. "I…I don’t know. I know someone who might, but. I don’t know if we're still on speaking terms." Sam smiled sadly.

An echo of the pain he'd felt still flowed through him, throbbing behind his eyes and sticking hot little knives in his joints and chest, but something told him to keep that away from Sam, just like he kept silent the fact he saw everything Sam saw too…he was afraid to tell him. Afraid that something had come out of hell with him, something that made him different than the Dean he was before. "Well, I feel fine." He dredged a smile up out of somewhere and flashed it. "I'm kind of hungry though."

Sam laughed. "Wow, that's a surprise. Help me tape this and we'll go get lunch."

Dean knelt and pressed his hand along the strip of duct tape and it felt like fire. He calmly pulled his hand away and stood again. He'd had three years to learn how to deal with fire.

Sam opened the door to Danny, who stood in the doorway with a grin and a bag of…stuff. He shoved his glasses up his nose, a move that incidentally drew attention to the fact that they were a pretty shade of gray. He whipped off the ugliest hat Sam had ever seen, a tufted, weird, stringed thing that looked like an animal or something had died on his head…was it an owl?
"Hey, I brought some, ah, a book and some snacks—in case I actually get a chance to be bored, though I doubt that, not with Dean." Danny smiled at Dean, snatched the hat off his head and waved, then stood there, shifting the bag and hat in his arms, until Sam took pity on him and led him into the living room.

"I think I can guarantee you won’t be bored. He's been in kind of a mood lately—bit of a bear. Like a mix of Yogi and…um. A Grizzly. It's been…" Sam was worried about the migraines Dean got with more frequency. He glanced over at where he stood against the window, and laughed out loud—Dean was flipping him off. "Okay, okay, but you know it's true."

"Grizzly, okay, Yogi—just—no. No Yogi, Oh wait…" Dean smirked. "Does that make you Booboo?"

Sam laughed, in surprise this time, and turned to Danny with a warm grin. "I really appreciate you helping out, considering…" The crew had had a real ass bite of a day. They'd been called in on a nasty knifing in a bus terminal bathroom—the victim had bled out in one of the stalls, guts purposely spread all over the toilet and the floor, almost in a pattern of some sort. They'd had to search out body parts like a gruesome Easter egg hunt….

The crew had done the major part of the work on that job—he'd dropped in with Dean about noon and given them a hand. Scraping coagulated blood from tile wasn't something he'd recommend to anyone.

He had an odd buzz about this one--it had a ritualistic look and feel but that didn’t mean it was necessarily supernatural, humans managed to prey on each other in horrible ways. He hadn't been able to take the time he'd needed to know for sure—Dean hadn't said anything but Sam picked up on Dean's almost non-existent signals anyway--he could tell the crowds and the noise, the scene, had been overpowering him.

That's why he'd planned to head back to the terminal this evening. He'd spun some tale about having a date, and Danny had volunteered to hang out with Dean until he got back. Sam shrugged into his coat and told Danny, "Ah…I'm doing some work in the house so wherever you see duct tape, leave it—it's there for a purpose."

The duct tape had been one of his better ideas—doing its duty keeping his salt lines at the threshold and all window sills nice and straight, and fairly permanent—and necessary. If Ruby had shown up to simper at him, it meant that he was probably starting to register on the demon radar again…and maybe since the outworlders had taken enough interest in him to get him Dean back, it might be rekindling the demons' interest in him. Fuck knew he was way out of practice with this stuff, in no shape to deal with any pissed off Lord of Hell looking for its chew toy back. "I won’t be out too long. If you have any kind of problem at all, call me."

Sam walked back into the bedroom with Dean on his heels. He rifled through the closet, selecting what he figured he'd need for the evening--tucked holy water in one pocket, travel shaker of salt in the other. He glanced over at Dean—he was watching Sam with a frown…it deepened when he saw Sam slide his gun into the back of his pants. Sam stopped. "Hey. You gonna be okay?"

Dean gave him a smile carved from ice. "Sure. You go out and enjoy your date. Try not to shoot them," he said dryly and looked Sam squarely in the eye, almost a challenge. Sam coughed and dropped his eyes.

"Ah. Yeah, um. Thanks. I'll see you…later," he said, and felt his cheeks burning. It was weird…he was embarrassed about lying about the date, lying to Dean at all, when it was clear Dean knew he was lying, and was hurt. Pissed off and…maybe a little jealous, too? Sam let himself out into the stairwell, leaned against the wall and let out a long breath. He felt guilty for lying to Dean, and guilty for feeling glad that Dean might be jealous.

Dean watched Danny, watched him move gracefully about the apartment, his slim form weaving around the furniture almost hypnotically, picking up magazines, and clothes—"God, how in the hell can you guys possibly own so many socks? What do they, like, *mate* up in here?" He whisked a couple of mismatched socks off the couch and the coffee table into a laundry basket. "You guys are just disgusting. Ya'll really need a maid…" He looked at Dean. "Hey, you sure you're all right? You've been staring at me all night. You bored—or hungry?"

Hungry? Dean felt like…he might be hungry. Some kind of hunger, maybe…he stared at Danny, thought of the date Sam claimed to be on. He thought of the demon girl, what she'd said, that Sam hadn’t waited...he felt the oddest sense of being two different people, feeling so completely opposite—fiercely angry that Sam didn’t wait but also, puzzled by the feeling--Sam had no reason to wait, there was nothing to wait *for*--

He watched Danny and wondered himself, what it would be like to touch…taste. Was it…did it hurt here like it hurt there? His mouth dropped open, and heat skated under his skin…Danny. He could *make* him. Easy. "Hey."

Danny jumped, startled that Dean had come up on him so silently. "Dean?" He smiled uncertainly. "Would you like burgers? We can go down to that place on the end of the block you liked—um. Hello?"

Dean came closer, moving slowly at Danny with a smile, edging him back step by step as Danny babbled about burgers and other things that slid off Dean like oil off skin. He felt--strong, heavy. It felt good…it slipped down his spine, curled hot in his gut and between his legs…Danny squeaked and it made his skin burn. Dean huffed in a deep breath, open-mouthed to better taste, and smell. Danny was confused, afraid—aroused. Just a little, just enough.

"Dean, quit it—" Danny straight armed Dean, gave him a solid hit to the chest and it hurt. Dean snarled at the pain, and then chuckled. Danny's expression was comically alarmed, he'd had just realized that Dean had him trapped in a corner of the kitchen, pinned between the counter and himself.

Dean shivered, and grinned. Sam had fun, and it was Dean's turn to have fun. He'd missed this smell, this little sour smell of fear. "Sam won’t fuck you, not ever…but guess what, his brother's not that picky…."

"Get *off*! Dean! Don't—" He felt Danny's pulse thud under his fingertips and under his lips as he pressed them against the column of Danny's neck, the thick pulse beat against his tingling lips, his tongue. He traced circles against that pulse, bit down on it, and sucked, rasping his teeth against tender skin. He rolled his hips, ground against his target. He grunted—he was hard, and he felt his own pulse pounding in his veins, it made him feel full, big, and hot--*burning*.

Danny made a sound of protest. Some sound, some word, it was hardly important. The smell of blood, of fear, pulled up memories, alien memories that hurt, bad enough to make him moan…a distant voice echoed, 'we help people.' Heard the voice tell Sam 'it's what we do.' If he hurt Danny, if he hurt him….

Dean backed up and Danny seized his momentary weakness to slip out from between him and the counter like an eel, already digging his phone out of his pocket to call for Sam as he moved. He looked back at Dean with wide gray eyes glassy with fear, and…Dean snorted. Concern. For him--Dean smiled. It was too easy. He licked his lips, and lunged at Danny again. Danny, such an easy target….

Danny hit him, a solid punch to the gut that folded Dean up and dropped him to the floor. His knees hit hard, they both heard the crack and Danny winced and eased away. "Sorry, sorry but…"

Dean couldn't move. Black spots floated in front of his eyes and his gut churned. His head hung between his trembling arms, his palms were flat on the floor and itched to curve like claws around Danny's neck—he tried to shove down the black rush of rage that made him shake, made his teeth grind…he blinked, once, twice, and suddenly he was all there, back in the kitchen, back in his head, back to normal. He heard Danny asking him, "are you okay?" and apologizing, "I'm—I'm sorry but—"

Dean looked up into Danny's frightened eyes and felt…sick. Felt like throwing up, like ripping into himself. He shook his head. "No, I'm sorry, so sorry," he croaked. "Fuck…I'm. I don’t know. Why I did that."

It was absolutely true—he had no idea why he'd tried to attack Danny, all he could remember was being so fucking angry, and…and there was Danny, slow, weak, blind….

Dean shook his head, hard--these thoughts, they weren't his--where the fuck were they coming from? Hell…must be Hell, oozing out of his pores like a fucking plague. He was exhaling it and sweating it and contaminating everything with it...terror gagged him. What if this wasn't the worse that he could do, what if he hurt someone worse than this, what if he hurt *Sam*? "You have to know I'm sorry," he gasped. "So fucking sorry."

"Okay, okay…but. I'm calling Sam, all right? I'll ask him to come home, okay?" Danny was doing his best to smile, but it trembled uncertainly on his lips. He'd always looked at Dean with…fondness. That was gone. He looked at Dean like he was dangerous, not to be trusted. Dean wondered at how much that hurt, and was afraid of the part of him that whispered Danny should always have looked at him like that….

Danny came close, and patted Dean's shoulder despite his uncertainty. That he was still willing to be his friend just made the strange pain Dean was feeling even worse. He promised himself that when Sam came home, he'd make it right again. When Sam came home, it would all be better again.

The victim had been knifed in a small walled area that separated the restrooms from the main corridors. At night now there was little traffic, and the sealed granite floor sent back echoes of his footsteps as he walked. Easy to clean, he mused…the whole world had kind of settled into what was easy and what was not easy to clean. He grimaced. A world view as limited as his dad's had been….

He checked out the short hall and examined the tiles…no tell tale stain in the grout, he smelled bleach and stone and gasoline and that was all. The guys had done a good job; there was no sign of the blood that had sprayed nearly head height against the walls and across a big swath of the floor.

It had been a violent, nasty death. The victim had suffered terrible pain…Sam suspected it had something to do with demons but there'd been no obvious trace. Besides, Dean used to always say that fucked up people where worse any day than fucked up supernatural things.

Sam walked the area, thinking, looking…he could find out what had happened here pretty quickly, but…he didn't like using any of the powers that bastard had forced on him. It bothered him that ever since he'd gotten Dean back home, it was getting easier to use them, less draining, less painful—he stopped himself on the edge of doing stuff without thinking too many times. But maybe…maybe this once, maybe using them for the positive wouldn't hurt. He'd just take a quick 'peek', real quick….

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and kind of tentatively cast about with his mind…waited to see if he felt anything, but everything seemed pretty much normal. At least nothing was pinging him, not yet. Sam adjusted the gun at his back—loaded with regular bullets, he wasn't taking a chance, not in this neighborhood. After a half hour of searching, he shrugged. Nothing. He trotted towards the main part of the station, eager to be gone now.

Whatever he'd felt earlier, it was gone now. Sam figured it must have been an echo of the death. Got them sometimes—it was as if the space where the death happened captured a weak recording of the violence. Mostly those echoes just bled off and faded out but every once in a while, they didn't, the echoes grew, got stronger, and then you had a 'haunted' house. The right incantation and some herb work generally took care of that, not really that big a deal….

Outside on the street, he took a few seconds to breathe, and jumped a little when his phone buzzed. Blushing at startling like an amateur, he dug his phone out of his pocket and flipped it open. Danny. "Damn—is Dean getting antsy? Sorry, didn't think I'd taken that long--tell him I'm coming--"

"Um, good. Hey, listen, he's upset about something and getting ah, kinda handsy, I mean not at this moment now but he definitely was but I don't think he meant to, I mean, I really think maybe it's from—well, something in the past and you might need to talk to him, kinda explain about personal space and…and…" Danny's voice trailed off uncertainly. "…biting."

"Biting! What the fuck—I'm on my way now, right now."

What the fuck ? Dean made a move on Danny? Why? —Sam mentally smacked himself. Yeah, that was the problem here, Dean was coming on to someone else—Jesus. Sam swore at himself. What an ass. Sam flagged a cab. He needed to get home like now.

Sam sent Danny home with profuse apologies. Thank God, the kid had been more than forgiving—a hell of a lot more worried about Dean than himself. There were hugs at the door, and promises extracted that Sam would go easy on poor Dean, and please bring him in to work, really—all was forgiven—and the moment the door shut, Sam rounded on Dean. He was furious, beyond furious. "What the fuck—what the fuck Dean! I—" Sam heard himself shouting, and struggled for calm.

He lost.

"--what in the hell were you thinking, Dean? Why would you try to hurt him?"

Dean shouted back, "I don’t know why! Stop asking me! I don't know why!" He paced in anxious circles around the room, head clutched in his hands, anger pouring off him in waves.

"Dean—" Sam tried to reach out to him and Dean smacked his hand away, turned and punched Sam in the chest hard enough to stagger him. Sam stumbled sideways with the force of it, tripped, and ended up on his ass on the floor.

"Damn it Sam, I said *stop*!"

Sam glared at Dean from his sudden seat on the floor, palm against his chest and gasping for air—suddenly Dean was coming after him *again*, fucker—Sam rolled and kicked Dean's legs out from under him, heard him bark in pain when his head connected with the floor. Still, Dean was rolling as he hit, and kicking. He caught Sam in the ribs, and Sam felt the shock of it race up his side into his jaw, his teeth clicking together sharply. Anger roared through him, making his blood boil, and his vision shimmer. "What the fuck, you bastard—" He grabbed Dean by the collar of his shirt without thinking, twisted it in his fist, and yanked him around until they were eyeball to eyeball. He yelled, barely an inch from Dean's face, "Knock it off before someone gets hurt!"

Dean froze, panting and glaring…his fist flew up but he dropped it. When he was certain Dean wasn't going to sucker punch him, Sam slid closer, shifting the both of them until they were jammed shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. "Dean—damn it--you need to get a grip. Do you hear me?"

Dean's eyes dropped, his sides were heaving…he nodded. "I—hear you."

Sam huffed, and threw an arm around Dean's shoulders. "You're done now, right?"

"I *said*--yeah. I'm done." He leaned into the touch and Sam tightened his grip. Dean shook his head and said, "I'm sorry, but…I really don't know why I did that. Danny's a good guy."

Sam grimaced. "Yeah, he is Dean, because me? I would've shot ya. If Danny tells Raph, he'll want to kick your ass…and I will let him."

"He'd do that? But…but you wouldn't really…let him? You'd stop him, right?"

Sam stared at Dean. There was something in his eyes, something in Dean's voice. Sam knew he was missing something, damn it. It was right in front of him but…he just couldn't pin it down. Shit. He wished he had more help, had someone who could explain what was going on in Dean's head…Bobby probably would have figured out what Sam was doing wrong…he'd know what to do. He should have called Bobby before he even began this…Sam snorted. He knew damn well why he hadn't called Bobby, and Bobby would have been wrong.

Sam leaned against the cabinet behind him and Dean tucked his head against his chest. Sam cupped the back of Dean's neck. They were missing pieces here. Maybe the more pieces he put together for Dean, the more settled he'd be…maybe it was time… "Hey. You wanna go get your car tomorrow?"

"Get the car? Sure. Cool."

Sam nodded, deep in thought. Get the car, and then…he'd think about his next step.

Sam woke up with the oddest feeling that something dark was in the room with him, but that was unlikely--nothing was getting across the barriers. The air was especially hot, so hot his skin felt tight and dry. There was a weird quality to the light, like behind the shuttered blinds the sky was full of golden light, and not the night it should be….He blinked and gazed around sleepily, and what he saw made the hair on his neck rise. He was instantly wide awake and wondering what in the hell was going on.

Dean was draped over the overstuffed chair that flanked the television. He was staring…in the faint light peeking through the blinds, his eyes were a milky, translucent jade. Sam startled. He'd seen that before, he was sure, it meant something but he didn't know what….

He could see that Dean knew he was awake, but he made no sound, didn't move from his perch on the chair. He was—panting. The sound was at odds with the way he lounged, his relaxed expression. Dean ran a pink tongue tip across the bow of his upper lip, the full, juicy curve of his lower lip, his ribcage expanding and contracting as he panted. He stretched, and his tee-shirt rode up, exposing tight muscle and a thin trail of hair running down the flat plane of his belly, under the low waistband of his sweats. He yawned, and the pink tip of his tongue curled backwards into his mouth. Sam muffled a moan behind his hand, shook his head, hard. "Wake up," he told himself.

Dean slid off the chair like a boa and dropped clothes as he stalked towards him. Shirt…pants…boxers….

Normally, at the point in his dreams when Dean shed his clothes, Sam would find that he was also nude, or wearing a leather harness, or…there'd been that one horrible nightmare, he'd been dressed as a clown. This dream wasn't following any of the rules. He wasn't nude, he wasn't aroused, point of fact, he was deeply, deeply, frightened. With each step Dean took towards him, Sam could feel a thick cold darkness rising inside, filling him, choking him.

Dean made a noise that sounded like purring, or a lion coughing…it was abundantly obvious that he was aroused. Sam said again, a little more desperately this time, "Wake up."

Dean walked closer, drew his hands down his chest and red smears trailed his finger tips. "I am awake."

Sam shook his head quickly. "Not you, me. Oh God, wake up--"

Dean stopped, cupped his dick, and a thick chuckle burbled out of his throat. "Oh come on. Are you seriously telling me you don’t want this to happen? We both know it's all you can think of—you're making me deaf with wanting it, screaming for it in that twisted head of yours. Remember that summer, at Bobby's? You little freak, you sniffed after me all that summer, ran around behind me with your tongue hanging out. You think I didn’t know?"

Sam felt his heart rip in two. Dean was making fun of him, teasing him. Being mean, like he'd been to him that summer—no, Dean hadn't known, this Dean was lying. He'd never believe that his brother had tortured him on purpose, never--"Please. Stop."

"Aw, Sam. Sam, Sam…don’t be that way. I watched you too, after that summer. Watched your ass…watched you getting taller, smarter." The dark flooded out of Dean's eyes, filled the air…"Watched you pull away until you almost disappeared." He inhaled sharply, coughed out a short sharp laugh. "*Did* disappear, didn't you, Sam?"

Dean's face changed, his attitude changed. He looked softer, sadder. "Don’t leave me again."

The dark disappeared, it was only night time, and he was only sleeping. Soft, soap scented fingers touched his cheek; a fleeting, gentle touch that Sam wasn't sure was real. He opened his eyes, and Dean was on his knees in front of him, inches from his face, warm breath dancing across his lips. He sighed, and Dean crawled up on the couch and Sam didn't question it—he moved so Dean could lay down with him.

"I'm sorry, you know." Sam said. "I'm sorry about…all of it. What I did to you. I'm sorry if it hurt you."

Dean breathed out, quiet for a long moment. When he spoke his voice was thick and fuzzy with sleep. He muttered, "What? Sorry for what, Sam?" and pulled Sam's arm around his waist. "I like it when you hold me; it hardly hurts at all anymore…." Sam wanted to ask what he meant, but he was warm, and comfortable, and it felt so damn good to have Dean in his arms….

In the morning, Sam woke up aching from head to toe, cramped from not moving all night. Dean was on the floor, shoulders pressed against the coach and eating a bowl of instant oatmeal. "Morning," he said, slightly muffled by the glutinous mess he was shoveling into his mouth. "Got up early—you were making noise." He swallowed the mass in his mouth and turned around to catch Sam's eye. "I was worried. Sounded like a nightmare."

Sam blinked. "Yeah…I think it mostly was…"

Dean reached up and ruffled his hair. "Stop trying to sack out on this stupid couch and you'll sleep better."

Sam got up and headed for the bathroom. "I doubt that," he muttered.

Stop trying to sack out on this stupid couch…

Sam made breakfast and thought about what Dean had said about the couch, and *not* sleeping on the couch. And realized that Dean had kind of invited him to share the bed. With him.

That right there? Was weird on a major level. Sure, they'd shared beds before—but since they'd entered their teens, only if strictly necessary, and Dean would rather sleep on the floor than sleep with him. Hell, he'd rather sleep on broken bottles than share the bed--hadn't voluntarily shared a bed with him ever since--ever since that summer and now he was offering, like--like it was okay with him, like he *wanted* it.

Sam shook his head. No, couldn't be, not Dean. And maybe Dean was emotionally kind of all over the map, but, fuck, he had a right to be, Sam thought. He did. It was just…Dean was *so* moody and *so* cranky. And the thing with Danny. And the fight they'd had, which, okay, was actually kind of normal for them—or had used to be normal before he'd taken off for college what seemed like a couple of lifetimes ago.

Sam snorted, dropped a stack of pancakes onto the table and hollered to let Dean know there was food. He put out butter and syrup and yelled for Dean again, figured he'd make coffee while he waited for whatever flavor of cranky Dean was going to show up this morning.

Dean came around the corner, stopped with a huge smile. "Hey, great, pancakes. Thanks Sam." Sam smiled back, kind of…stunned. Looked like it was going to be a good morning.

Sam sat at the table with Dean and watched him eat, and after a bit Dean stopped eating, his fork hovering between the plate and his mouth. He peered at Sam suspiciously, and the little lines that Sam had noticed lately at the corners of Dean's eyes deepened "What's wrong?"

Sam shook his head. "Nothing. Go ahead, eat your breakfast." He picked at his own plate, and avoided Dean's eyes and it kind of went to shit after that. Dean picked up on Sam's mood and got pissy—mood swings, they were delightful. He ate as much as he could stomach, and cleared his plate away. He bumped into Dean at the sink, and Dean growled a little under his breath. "Bitch."

Sam was surprised into grinning and replied, "Jerk," but Dean just shot him a look full of resentment and no recognition before stomping out of the kitchen. Great.

After breakfast, Sam called a cab and didn’t tell Dean where they were going, aside from Dean's one muttered curse word, he didn't say a word--they didn't talk to each other at all. Their entire conversation had devolved into a series of grunts and sighs, and then they were in front of a chain link fence sporting a once colorful sign that read "Max's Garage". The unlocked chain link gate shrieked and wobbled on its track as Sam pushed it to one side.

Once in the yard, he shouted to let whoever was there know they had company. "Hey, Max! Anybody here?"

An older guy in a faded, once navy cover-all waved at Sam, the guy with his head stuffed into the engine of the old Mercedes they were working on looked up curiously, before tossing Sam a dis-interested salute. The old guy jerked his chin towards a shack surrounded by cars in various stages of repair, squatting on the edge of the concrete yard.

A heavy set man in crisp navy blue work shirts and pants looked out. "Winchester," Max called out. "Come to look at your piece of shit Chevy?"

"Whoa, watch out dude, you're treading on dangerous ground--" Sam mocked a growl and Dean was suddenly in front of him, crowding Sam back and bristling at Max. He growled too—and sounded so dangerous that both Sam and Max stopped and stared at him. Sam leapt to diffuse the situation. Dean was more than cranky this morning, he was royally pissed off at the world, it seemed. "Um, I'm pretty sure Max was kidding, Dean. He didn’t mean to insult your car."

"Oh, hey, this is Dean? Man, I'm just twisting your brother up. I respect anyone who kept that car practically cherry." He grinned. "I've heard a lot of real good stuff about you man," he grinned, "pretty much non-stop."

Dean glanced at Sam, and Sam cursed—he could feel his cheeks go red. "Yeah...well, he's back home with me now, to stay."

Max nodded. "Yeah, shit happens." He spoke straight to Dean. "You're home now and that's what counts—that and this." He gestured to Dean and they walked over to a shrouded shape behind the shack. "I took care of her myself." He yanked the cover off of the Impala. "There she is son, just like you left her." He winked. "Maybe a little better than when your bro dropped her off."

Dean stared at the car silently. He walked around it, expressionless. He peered into the window, he ran his hand from the hood to the trunk…when he looked up at Max, his eyes were red. "Thanks."

Max coughed. "Nah, don’t thank me. I liked looking after her." He looked at Sam. "You want the keys, right?"

"Yeah, it's time to take her home. I thank you for taking care of her all this time. We both thank you."

Dean nodded. "That we do."

Max went back to the shack, and tossed the keys to Dean. "Check her out while me and your brother settle up."

Sam walked into the little shack that served as lounge and Max's office. Inside, the smell of bitter, burnt coffee, grease, metal, and old wood reminded Sam of Bobby's yard, and sixteen year old Dean tailing the man, sniffing around the cars and learning whatever Bobby would let him, sun burning his freckled skin lobster red but Dean not giving up, giving in…Sam's stomach clenched. He watched Dean through the windows—he was frozen at the hood of the car, one hand on the hood, the other clutching the keys like he held a lifeline.

Max noticed Sam's set expression, and Dean standing like a statue against the car, and asked softly, "He gonna be okay?"

Sam jerked his head back to Max, anger making his jaw bunch. "What—"

The other shook his head and held out his hands. "Man, I recognize the signs, that's all. I'm not trying to get in your business, I'm just saying--I know how it can be."

"Okay." Sam nodded. "Appreciate the concern, man, but we're doing all right—really. Thanks again for, you know."

Dean was still frozen in front of the car when Sam came out of the office, looked almost pathetically grateful when Sam held his hands out for the keys. "Later, Dean, later you can drive."

Dean just nodded and got in the car. He didn't ask when.

Dean's mood swings got more intense; he seemed to simmer at the edge of a rage all the time now. He watched Sam with an expression that seemed to say whatever was wrong, was Sam's fault. Sam was beginning to feel Dean was right, that for whatever was wrong, he was to blame. He tried to keep his feelings for Dean under control. He pulled away a bit more, just so Dean could breathe…it didn't seem to help.

He was better in the car. Sam started driving around the city, out to the suburbs…over the bridge and driving past tank farms and factories, out to the country just driving aimlessly and Dean would relax, tense muscles stretching, the lines bracketing his mouth, his eyes, easing…he'd roll the window down and smile into the wind, and each time Sam thought, we need to see, we need to go…we have to leave….

In the morning he called Dana and let her know that she was in charge of the office until he said different. She was the soul of solicitude, which was so unlike her that it could only mean one thing--Raph had a damn big mouth. Sam sighed inwardly. That was the part of letting other people in that he'd never accept lightly. They took it for granted that they *belonged* in, that your life and their's were…intertwined in some way. It was what Dean warned him against over and over….

Dean had always had this fantasy about his Stanford life, that it was full of him being Social Sammy and it wasn't really. Jess pulled him into her life and her friends and he'd let her but it hadn't really been *his* life, he'd always imagined that some day, he'd be comfortable in it. He'd even tried his best to hang on to their friends...until it was made plain to him that no, it wasn't possible. Being a *Winchester* made it impossible.

But settling here, and just being himself had brought a change. His crew had evolved into friends and eventually…family. And family brought it's own set of problems….

"Dean…"

"*What*?" Dean shouted. He leapt off the couch with a glare at Sam and stomped off to the bedroom. Sam followed behind, clenching and unclenching his fists, telling himself over and over, be nice to the brother, be understanding, be non-homicidal….

"Dean, would you let me talk to you, please?" Sam tried to keep his voice soft, non-confrontational and…it was hard. "Dean," you incredibly bitchy little…" Sam eased himself into the bedroom, ready to duck if necessary, ready to grab tissues if it what he'd be dealing with was a Dean blaming himself for everything wrong in Sam's life, and the world in general. "Look, Dean, what do you say to getting out of here for a while—say, a road trip—"

"Fuck yeah!" Dean boiled up off the bed. "Yes, let's get the fuck out of here, this place is eating me alive, it's like a god damn cage—" He grabbed Sam's shirt, pulled him into a hard, quick kiss, and let him go so suddenly Sam staggered. He stared after Dean, totally forgetting how to breathe, how to blink….

"Shit, yeah, lemme see," He flung open Sam's closet and tossed a bag onto the bed, started throwing clothes at it. "We need to take some of that stuff you got in the duffel too, no reason we can’t do some work on our way to—where the fuck are we going to, anyway?" The look Dean tossed him was—Dean. Pure and simple, bright and shining.

"I don’t know, just—s-someplace. Together, right?" Sam was reeling--he hadn't expected such enthusiastic agreement, he hadn't expected…he touched his mouth with shaking fingertips.

Dean dropped to his knees and rifled through the duffle, acting like nothing strange had happened. Sam was mesmerized by his frenetic activity, it was…interesting. "Let's see…shotgun, shells…hunh. My Colt." he stopped and rubbed his thumb along the grip…"I can't believe I haven't asked for it."

Dean muttered on, pleasure evident in the curve of his body, the timber of his voice. "Okay, nice…knives, good edge, silver—ouch.

Sam was instantly at Dean's side. "Cut yourself? Let me see."

"No!" Den jerked away and shoved fingers into his mouth. "Get off, I'm not a girl--it's no big deal," he mumbled around his fingers.

Sam had seen a brief flash of what looked like a blister…he picked up the silver knife, and bounced it in his palm….

Knuckles knocked against his forehead. "Sam, hey. You here? What are you thinking about?"

"Ah…the last time we rode together. Our last job."

"Yeah." Dean patted his cheek, that odd, endearing gesture he'd picked up lately. "So, when we leaving?"

"Soon as I get it cleared at work—"

"Bullshit. You already cleared it before you asked me, sneaky mother fucker—oh! I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

Sam threw his arms up. "For fuck's sake, stop apologizing to me! Be yourself, Dean!"

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Yeah…myself. Sorry." Sam watched the excitement leach away, and it made him want to scream.

"Dean…" he grabbed his arm and swung him to face him. "That wasn't a criticism, not really. It's just…I want you to stop walking on eggs around me. What do you think will happen if you curse at me? Jesus, it's got to be better than you scowling and growling and slinking around here with your tail between your legs."

Dean took a breath, and huffed, sharp and short. "Yeah. Okay. It's just…I don’t know. I know how much I owe you and it makes me feel like…I shouldn't piss you off."

"What you owe me? What about what I owe you? Dean, we're going to have to let go of owe and shit like that. It's just you and me, and what we feel." He blushed hard—that came out wrong, it'd sounded--like a fucking soap opera. But it seemed to be what Dean needed to hear. He calmed, and smiled again. Bumped his fist against Sam's shoulder.

"Yeah. I hear ya."

Sam was at the kitchen table, only the light over the stove illuminating the small space. He was quiet—Dean was sleeping, had been for a few hours, and Sam had finally worked up the nerve to dial a number he hadn’t for a few years.

"Bobby…." Sam fought the urge to whisper, cleared his throat and began again, a fraction louder this time. "Hey, Bobby…"

"Sam? Is that you? Boy, what the fuck! Where have you been—do you know how long it's been?"

Sam swallowed hard, blinked his eyes fast. "Better than anyone, I'd guess."

The answer was slow in coming, and when Bobby did speak, his voice sounded a little rougher. "Yeah, well…fuck…it's been three years this August, exactly. This day in fact."

"Bobby…wait a minute. How do you know?"

"Never mind that, not like I was counting days or anything…" came the mumbled reply. "Are you--are you okay? Sam—shit. You're not about ta try anything crazy are you?"

"Bobby, would I have waited three years if I was going to?"

"I guess not," Sam heard, after a short pause filled with hell yeah you would.

"I'm...really, I'm okay. I'm good." At the huff from the other end of the line, Sam said, "Besides, who'd know better than you if I was—okay, or not? Trust me, I'm doing fine."

"Well, what I do know is you dropped out of the community, not a God damn peep outa ya, not a thing. Not a word," Bobby said accusingly.

"I know." Sam rubbed knuckles against his eyes, in between his brows, trying to work out the tension there…"I just couldn't…couldn't. I need a favor."

"Oh, fucking surprise. What?"

Sam couldn't help the short bark of laughter that escaped him at Bobby's sarcasm. "Look, I'm sorry. I know, it sucks to get in touch, and then ask you for something, but it's important." All humor leeched away when he thought of just what it was he wanted. "Just—please."

"Oh fuck boy, go on ask."

"I just need to come out and see you, that's all. Tell you what's been going on. Man, honestly? I need a break."

Bobby sounded worried now. "What *are* you doing, Sam?" he asked, in a soft tone Sam knew he saved for those moments he was really concerned. "Are you keeping safe? You're in New York, ain't cha? Just…well, hunters out that way've been getting anonymous tips. Good tips."

"And you put one and one together and got four. You're one wily son-of-a-bitch, you know that?"

"Hell yeah. Kept our fat out of the fire on more than one occasion, boy, don’t you forget that."

"Yeah, that you did…thanks Bobby. Thanks for…"

"Ahhhhh, save it. Like your brother used ta say, no damn chick-flick moments, right?"

"Right," Sam said, and managed a laugh. Hearing Bobby's voice was steadily undoing him, his hand was shaking, and he had to blink harder, and faster….

"Okay, then. Get yer ass in gear, boy. You flying out?"

"No, I'll be driving the Impala."

"That a fact? Like to see her again. All right—you know where to stop on the way—Jackson's cabin's free right now—the one at the halfway point? Could tell him you'll be using it."

"That'd be fine Bobby. That'd be great. Here's my number."

"All right. See you in a few. Bring groceries; I ain't forgot your appetite."

"Hey—that was way back when--I was still growing back then—"

He got a snort in return and dead air. Sam grinned wide. Okay. That part was over, and it went a fucking lot better than he expected…what Bobby was going to say when he showed up on his porch with Dean…well, he'd leave thinking about that to another day.

The next night, Sam was too restless to sleep. He felt like his skin was shrinking on his bones—he was worried, excited, hopeful—too full. He kept imagining Dean, sweating, twisting in the sheets, restless like he was. Needing—air, something. Touch. Something to ground him.

Sam pushed himself off the couch and walked to the bedroom, slowly. His throat was dry; the damn apartment was so hot it was hard to breathe. He tapped on the bedroom door, stepped in without waiting for a response, and Dean was leaning back against his pillows, top sheet and blanket pulled up to his t-shirt covered chest. Sam recognized it as one of his, a little loose in the arms for Dean, and that made his breath hitch….

Dean looked pleased to see Sam in the door way, nothing in his smile except the small pleasure at seeing him. "Sam. Hey. You not having much luck chasing sleep either—"

Sam shook his head, and climbed into the bed with Dean without speaking. Dean huffed, but not in an unfriendly way, and they jockeyed about for space for a few seconds, elbows and knees fighting for position until they finally settled comfortably.

"You excited about the trip?" Sam stroked Dean's arm where it lay out of the covers, and listened to his breathing even out, slow. He was quiet, and Sam had started to think he'd fallen asleep already when he spoke.

"Yeah. I am. I remember…I did always kind of like the traveling part. Didn’t like staying in one place too long."

Sam said, "I bet I know why, too," and Dean chuckled.

"C'mon Sam, was I all that bad?"

"Unh-hunh. What do you remember about back then—when we were kids?" Sam moved a little closer and nudged his knees under the back of Dean's, curled so he could rest his head in the dip between Dean's shoulder blades.

"I remember weird things, I think. Like…I remember Lucky Charms…liking them, I mean. You did too. Sometimes, when you were being a little shit, I'd give you my marshmallow bits to shut you up."

Sam nodded, felt his hair brush against Dean's back. "You didn’t like them," he said.

"That's what I told you," Dean said, his voice low and bland, relaxed. "If you'd known, you would have made that bitch face—you hated when I did stuff like that."

Sam stilled for a moment. Sure he'd known, he'd just not…*known*. "It's just that you never took anything for yourself—you acted like you were, but it didn't take a genius to figure out what you were doing, Dean." He rolled his forehead in that dip between Dean's wide, cotton-clad shoulders, felt Dean's shoulders shake a little with a stifled chuckle.

"Yeah, well, Dad woulda had my hide if I didn't keep you in check, which for some reason meant 'make Sam happy, no matter what it takes, for cryin' out loud'—not like you were some kind of whining little buzzsaw of self-pity, or anything." He nudged Sam with an elbow, and patted the hand Sam had clasped over Dean's waist, to let him know he there was nothing mean intended in what he'd said. "I didn't mind, though. Don’t you ever think I did."

"I know. Dean…I'm sorry." He fully expected Dean to know what he meant—there was only the one big thing between them, only one event that hadn't been spoken of between them. But Dean surprised him.

"For what, Sam? We have nothing to apologize for. Do we?" And he sounded so genuinely puzzled that Sam drew back, ignoring Dean's small sound of discomfort.

"Dean. Do you remember that time, when I went away?"

"Went away? I don't…" Dean was silent for a long moment and Sam was afraid that he'd unsettled Dean too much, enough to make him go into one of his unpredictable states, was sure he had, when Dean began to shudder.

"Sam—" Dean's voice shook a little with the tremors that wracked him, but he settled after a few minutes. "Sam, I'm don't remember. Maybe…maybe later."

Sam stroked his arm some more, and made soothing sounds…cursed himself for thinking that because Dean acted more like himself, that all was well, when he should know better. Dean was there, and trying, sure--but a lot of his Dean-ness was a thin veneer Dean wrapped around a person struggling to pull themselves out of the memory of hell, one painful day at a time…"Love you Dean," he whispered, nearly silently against his brother's back.

"You too," came the sleepy answer, and Sam smiled and took it down into sleep with him.

Air roared past them through the rolled-down windows, cool and fresh, and Sam felt himself grinning into the wind like a gigantic dork, but for the first time in a long, long time, he felt—whole. He glanced over at Dean—and safe. Stupid, but true. Sitting in the car, with Dean smirking in the seat next to him, knee nudged up against Sam's hip, dollar store Ray-Ban knock-offs covering his eyes and the collar of that ancient, beat up leather coat pulled up around his face…it felt right, at last.

They'd been on the road for a while, out of the city and into the outskirts and in that almost total dark between the lights of towns, only the moon and stars, the headlights of the Impala sweeping over the ground and bouncing off the landscape providing any kind of illumination. A few hours went by before the sky began to glow again with artificial light. Signs let them know they were entering a small town. The headlights dimmed and the moon faded--the night sky suddenly exploded into color.

Multi-colored lights flashed and glowed, drowning out the stars overhead. Dean tilted his head toward them—towards the recorded sound of calliopes bleating out of a PA system. "Hey Sam, look—there's a fair over there." He looked kind of wistful, and Sam smiled to himself.

"You want to check it out? We need to stretch anyway."

Dean nodded, his eyes roaming over the site, wistful gone and an alert expression in its place. Sam could almost list what he was doing: checking exit-ways, checking cover, looking for any suspicious movements.

Sam angled the Impala into a space and cut the engine. A barely audible sniff caught Sam's attention, and he looked over, just as Dean jerked his chin up, and inhaled again. He had such a look of concentration, that it struck Sam as odd.

"What are you doing?

Dean started guiltily, looked confused for a moment before smiling. "Um…hungry? Smells like hotdogs—you know, fair food." He stopped and shot Sam a dazzling smile—so bright Sam blinked, startled. "Love it," Dean said.

Sam stopped himself from shaking his head, and just grinned back. Yeah, Dean really did. "Okay, great—maybe they have those giant bags of cotton candy, remember?"

Dean looked puzzled for as moment, and then flushed an angry red. "Shut up."

Sam laughed, "You puked pink for days, man!"

"You're exaggerating," Dean huffed. "Hours—tops."

They headed out to the field the fair was set up in, and along the way, Sam looped an arm around Dean's neck and Dean smiled—and shrugged him off.

"Samantha. I'm fine, I don’t need a handler."

Sam was about to explain that he'd had his arm around him because it felt good, but internal censors kicked in. He laughed in relief. "Gotcha. No baby-sitting."

Stepping onto the fair grounds brought a wash of conflicting feeling—Sam remembered fairs from when he was a kid--a teen--walking arm in arm with girls he barely knew, sometimes alone, sometimes catching sight of Dean. Who, if he saw Sam, would always wink, but walk away…fairs were good times, and they were bad times, were the site of defeat. Loose the girl, get ignored by his brother, teased by his friends…fairs.

They wandered in and out of the crowd, Dean thumbing through a fistful of tickets, and Sam trying to be unobtrusive about holding Dean's arm, or hand, or sleeve, whatever he could get. They slid around and through the crowd, watching people, watching each other…Sam bought Dean a hotdog and a coke, and Dean pointedly refused a bag of cotton candy. They pretended that they really were just taking in the sights, tourists out for fun, out to enjoy themselves.

They spent nearly an hour walking the fair, moving through clots of people, wandering around the rides, Sam making sure the fair was just a fair, Dean looking for Sam had no idea what, and then Sam decided that as long as they were there, they needed to take a ride on the Ferris wheel that dominated the park. The high wheel was trimmed with splashes of neon, flashing on and off and lighting up the night. Sam stumbled to a stop a few feet from the ride; Dean was behind him but tried to move past. Sam heard him growl, a soft warning to whatever had made Sam stop so abruptly. Sam turned quickly, and smiled, trying to project reassurance. "Ready to ride?"

Dean lifted an eyebrow, snorted, and Sam laughed softly, blushing a little. He turned his attention back to the ride. Everything was fine, perfectly fine…it was just, for a second, the people waiting in line had looked unreal, like corpses, or vampires. Brown skin gone gray, white skin bled out to blue-white, under the brightly acidic light flooding the ticket-taker's stand.

The ticket-taker leaned forward when it was time to take a ticket from Dean's hand, his kohl smudged, whiskey colored eyes sweeping Dean from head to toe hungrily, black hair like crow's wings fluttered across his face. He took the bright red ticket strip from Dean's hands and managed to brush his fingertips as he did…smiled right into Dean's eyes and when it was Sam's turn, he held his tickets out to the guy and said, "Christo."

The guy looked at him with a puzzled smile. "…'xcuse me?"

Sam frowned and curled his fingers around Dean's shoulder, and Black Hair shrugged. "Buckle up," and lifted the bar so they could get in the car.

It rose up into the night, Sam's stomach swooped and rolled, and Dean threw his head back and laughed, grabbing at Sam's arm. The tilt and shudder of the car made them bump against each other, thighs rubbed, shoulders rubbed as they swooped upwards. Dean's hands were tight on the bar holding them in, and despite his laughter, his knuckles were white with effort. Sam reached over and laid his hand on top of Dean's, rubbed the thin white scars inching out of his sleeves and over the back of his hands and around his knuckles, until his grip loosened….

The ride was surprisingly nice, just as Sam had hoped it would be--like revisiting a real good memory, and then Dean tilted his head towards Sam and broke his heart.

"Sam…aren't you tired of taking care of me, instead of how it's supposed to be?"

"What? No, I'm not, and besides, I'm hardly taking care of you, it's not like you need it…" Sam looked at his brother and willed him to see right into his heart. "Even if I were…it's only fair we get to trade jobs from time to time, don’t you think?"

Dean was looking out over the fairground, the lights made his face into a mosaic of colors, except for the flat jade coins of his eyes. "I guess," he whispered.

"…at the beep, an' I'll get back to ya."

"Hey, Bobby. How's it going? Um…I'm outside of Herndon, ah, I ah. Be at the cabin probably in a day or two. I'll call. Trip is going good. Anyway, I'm surprised you're not home right now. What's up? Any jobs come your way lately? I'm kind of looking forward to catching up. Yeah, yeah, I know. It's just…time. I think. Okay, take care. Talk to you soon."

Dean lay on his back, hands folded over his chest and on the bed next to him, Sam imitated his position. It was hot in the room, the air conditioner was ancient, and it wheezed out lukewarm air as its fans rattled and groaned loud enough to nearly drown out the TV set. Not that Sam cared, the show was stupid, some 'ghost hunters' who couldn't find a ghost with both hands and a corpse. Dean watched them and quietly recited rituals for putting ghosts to rest to himself, different ways to destroy violent spirits. He murmured the steps to breaking down and cleaning a gun, and Sam smiled. It was their family version of a bedtime story, pulled out of the past. He let his eyes close, and the steady, low drone of Dean's voice sent him into sleep.

In the middle of the night, he woke to the feel of something slick and wet rolling down his thigh, soaking into the bed sheets. Blood, he thought at first—froze. come? He fumbled awake, his head cleared and he realized with relief what it was. Sweat, just sweat. At every point they touched, sweat built up, overflowed with each slight shift. He murmured his brother's name, and felt a dim sense of shame that knowing it was Dean's sweat dripping down his thighs made him ache…knowing Dean was touching him, skin to skin, made his dick hard. Sam sighed, and moved so they weren't plastered to each other any more. Still, sweat inched down his belly and soaked into the waist of his boxers….

He was awake until dawn.

"So, we'll stop in the next town—what is it, Monroe? Last one before Jackson's cabin, right?""

Dean checked the map, followed the thick yellow track outlining their route. "Yeah. It'll be good to stop—my legs think I died a while back. Not to mention my stomach."

"Your stomach rules you, Dean. Don’t let it," Sam said, with mock solemnity.

"Yeah, screw you, bean-pole. You never eat—what do you know about needing food so bad, you're ready to sell your brother to the next traveling band of gypsies for a Devil Dog?"

Sam glanced at him from the corner of his eye, and burst out laughing. "Dude—you'd sell me that short? I'm worth a steak, asshole."

Dean laughed, loud and long, and Sam blushed like a kid, pleased as hell.

For the last few hours, the landscape had been gradually changing from flat to hilly—pines were dominating the skyline, and towns were getting smaller and farther apart. They'd been steadily climbing higher and higher into thickly wooded hills, and the higher they went, for some reason, the safer and happier Sam felt. It was beautiful—dense conifer forest, and everything so green and alive. Dean reflected his mood, happy, singing along with the radio, teasing him, messing with the cassettes in the plastic box shoved under the front seat, just—behaving like Dean would whenever they were on the road—those rare instances when Dean would let him drive without bitching. Sam felt his grin grow with each cassette Dean threw at him and demanded he play 'now, bitch.' Not hesitating to cuss Sam out for not obeying him instantly. It was great; it was so great Sam was almost afraid he was going to do something to fuck it up.

Sam pulled off onto a scenic overlook on the road--it looked out to a waterfall, a pretty impressive sight, they agreed, and got out of the car to check it out.

The rushing waters made a soft background sound, and the lightning smell of running water scented the air. They kind of fell into talking softly as they walked around the overlook—like the way you'd talk in a church and Sam thought it really kind of was, like a church. He felt God there more strongly than he'd ever felt him in any brick and glass structure. Dean had his elbows propped on the thick rail of the post and rail fence, staring over into the river below the falls. He looked like an angel, tips of his hair shining gold in the sun, rainbows shimmering in the mist behind him…it was a ridiculously beautiful picture and even kind of…romantic, and the feeling that swept over Sam was too deep to keep to himself… "Wow."

Dean gazed back, luminous green eyes spearing him. "Yeah. Wow."

Sam walked over next to Dean, leaning his elbows on the rail too. "You—it's really beautiful out here, isn't it?"

Dean's gaze shifted away from Sam's eyes, his happy smile melted, and there was something wary in his eyes. He looked at his feet. "Yeah. Beautiful."

"Dean…"

"Listen, I want—I need—to tell you something. I need to tell you but I'm afraid…"

Sam laughed, breathless, and maybe a little scared, too. "Believe me; I don’t think there's anything in the world that can shock me now."

"Yeah…maybe...." Dean said, leaned against the fence, back to the waterfall. A shift of his gaze, a tilt of his head, and Sam was pressed under the weight of Dean's attention. Coupled with the sound of falling water and the soft breeze, it was hypnotizing, and Sam startled when Dean began speaking in a low, flat voice.

"It was bad in the beginning, when I first came back."

Sam nodded, he was sure the memory was brutally vivid for the both of them. Dean sighed and went on. "At first I thought it was being out of hell that made me the way I was. Afraid all the time. Off center. Everything was so strange, so frightening. I waited for it to go away and…it didn't, you know? For a while, it just got worse." He swallowed and went on. "Hurt, like walking around with your skin off, peeled raw. Everything hurt so much." He laughed bitterly. "I thought I'd had all the kinds of pain there are, you know? Until I touched you. It was…pain's too small a word, y'know? Anyway, after a while, it let up. Little bit by little bit, it hurt less. And then, I started to remember things--about me. About you."

Sam shuddered, not able to move closer, not able to move away. "Yeah."

"Not all good things." Dean shook his head, his face twisted in pain. "I remembered things I used to feel sick about, used to wish I could rip out of me. That one summer that you hated me so much—you didn't want to be near me, you didn’t want me to touch you and I knew you could feel it, this sickness I had." He rubbed his face; his hands coming away dry from reddened eyes. "That's when we didn't share a bed anymore." He grinned and it made Sam's hurt. "It was the best I could do for you, until you left. See? I do remember you leaving." Dean shook his head. "But I don’t remember too much after that. Just you leaving, and then, you coming with me when I needed you back. I remember making that deal, and I remember the deal coming due--hurting, so bad, and why I was hurting—for you, all for you, and then…nothing much." He laughed, a wet, helpless kind of thing, clogged with pain. "Except, fire and blood and—and other things."

Sam was crying. "You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to."

"It's not that," Dean said, "I can't. I want to but the words just…dry up and blow away. I want to tell you Sam, but they. They won’t come. They run together and I can’t get them and it aches inside me how bad I want to tell you. And how bad…I'm sorry that I ever made you hate me. I'm sorry that I was, I used to be…." he dropped his head, and Sam reached out and touched his arm.

"But you know now, right? That I never hated you, Dean. How could I?" Sam's face felt tight with dried tears, and he smeared more tears into his skin with the back of his hand.

Dean shook his head, wiped his sleeve over his pale, dry face. "You don't get it, Sam." He wouldn’t let Sam speak again. "Let's just…let's just move, all right? We've got a few hours of daylight yet."

Sam sighed, nodded and followed Dean to the car. Of course he'd known, from the moment he'd dragged that terrible bundle out of hell, that Dean had suffered horrors he'd never be able to understand. But to know that his suffering hadn't ended when he was home again, that his touch had hurt his brother…that even trying to care for Dean had been torture for him….

Sam blinked wetness from his eyes, and swallowed hard. And then, that summer, Dean's version of it. Sam wanted to do something about that, to change what Dean thought was true about it—but right now, Dean's memories were a stew of broken, half formed links. What if something Sam did now fucked him up even more? It was probably best to let it go for right now…until Dean was stronger….

Back at the car, Sam unfolded the map across the hood of the Impala and Dean leaned over his shoulder. "Okay, we've got one more stop I'm thinking, before we get to the cabin. One more overnight, and then we're home free. Stay at the cabin a few days…hunh." Sam's eyes opened wider. "Time is flying, it's almost September—".

Dean smirked and nodded. "Yeah, I know…your crew's going to be all right without you?"

Sam smiled at him. "Let me worry about the crew, you just worry about what you're going to make for dinner tonight."

Dean lifted eyebrows, and smirked. "Oh, yeah? I don’t think you really want me cooking…but I can tell you what I'd like to eat…."

Sam blushed and jammed the map into his jacket pocket, feeling about twelve and turning nothing into all kinds of crazy stuff.

The cabin was a pretty thing, set in a small clearing that had been cut out of the woods; the dirt yard of the cabin was edged by rocks picked for their color and shape. Pine trees rose up all around the edges the clearing, and the undergrowth was sprinkled with plants not exactly native to the area, but known for their protective properties. Along with those plants, there were thick beds flanking the porch steps, full of plants he recognized as also being the ingredients in some pretty powerful protective spells.

Right at the side of the cabin was space to park, and a well stocked woodpile. The front porch was wide enough for a table and benches, and Sam smiled, already imagining having dinner in the evening, watching the sun sink. Dean hadn't followed Sam on his walk around the cabin, he was leaning against the car, nose wrinkled like he smelled something bad.

Sam rolled his eyes, and snorted. "Help me unload, Nature Boy," he said, and opened the trunk for the bags. Dragging his bag up on the porch, he saw with approval that a line of protective sigils had been worked into the rails and posts, and around the doorway and windows. He nodded. This was probably the safest place, bar Bobby's yard, that they could be right now.

Sam knelt and lifted the doormat, and nestled under it was the key. He grinned. Kind of let him know what the human population was like around there, if it was safe enough to do that. He started to drop the mat, when he noticed what it had covered, there was a design carved into the porch floor, salt swept into the carving—a devil's trap. He snorted. Safe as houses. "Well, looked like Jackson was serious as hell about protection, hunh? Not much getting in here."

Dean winced and scrubbed at the back of his neck. "Including us, if you don’t get out of the way. Can we get on with it? I'm tired as shit--got a motherfucker of a headache."

Sam nodded. "Yeah…man, I hope there's hot water and lots of it. A shower right now sounds like a perfect dream."

"Um-hm." Dean jittered, bumped Sam's hand over and over as he tried to unlock the door—kept looking over his shoulder. "I don’t know, Sam. I feel weird here. Like something's waiting to—to get at us." He rubbed hard at his forehead. "Geez, my head feels like it's going to blow apart," he muttered.

Sam reached out to Dean, who seemed unaware that he was sweating, pale—so pale he looked green around the edges. "Go on in, I'll get the rest of the stuff." Dean nodded, went to pull himself through the doorway, and hissed.

"Fucking splinters…" He sucked at the palm of his hand, eyes narrowed. They'd gone a stormy olive green, and he stared at Sam accusingly.

Sam sighed. He'd sort it out after he got Dean settled. "Well, let's get inside, and line the doorway and stuff. Even though I doubt anything's cracking that wall of protection outside. Hell, the garden is almost a primer in herb protection. It'd have to be a damn determined demon to break in here."

"Good," Dean snapped and kicked the bag into the living area. "Nice." He winced and growled. "Need a fucking shower now."

"Yeah, go ahead. I'm going to unpack—check out the pantry and see what we have here. Call me if you need me."

Den's head jerked up. "Need you?" He snorted. "Think I can take a shower by myself, dude."

"That's not…you know…*fuck* you."

Dean laughed, and slammed the bathroom door shut. A few minutes later Sam heard the shower start and huffed. Great. Now his head was full of images he really didn't need, or want. He adjusted himself quickly and went to work.

Night brought soft sounds, good smells…sweet and spicy from the garden, savory and delicious from steaks on the grill. Dean wrapped a few potatoes in tinfoil and tossed them into the coals under the steaks. Sam smiled at him, and tilted the neck of his beer to him, and took a deep drink. He licked his lips and dropped his head, and Dean was staring at him. When he caught Sam catching him, he smiled, rolled the bottle between his hands.

"Sam."

"You like it out here?" Sam said. "I think it's great."

Dean shrugged, and winced a bit. "Nice, just us. I like that."

After dinner, they took closer inventory of supplies, and Sam told Dean he'd need to go back to the little town at the base of the hills and pick up the few things they'd need for the time they'd be there—no more than a couple of days. Dean was to stay in bed—in bed, not messing with the Impala, not puttering around the weapons, not anything but popping aspirin and sleeping.

"I'm not tired," Dean complained.

"Yeah, well, you're practically green and earlier you looked like you were about to puke. We've got a few more days of driving, dude, and I don’t want you getting sick on me."

"Trust me, I wouldn’t get sick on you."

Fucking hell…Dean was grinning at him the same way he used to grin at anonymous waitresses and barmaids across the country. Sam swallowed, his mouth bitter with an acidic tang….
Maybe it was just his sick imagination but he'd swear, Dean was flirting with him.

This was not a good thing. Sam was reading too much into—into nothing. Nothing, but still his mind kept flashing into the past--to that near blowjob in the kitchen. He could see Dean, whining as he dropped to his knees with a broken, lost look…cold fingers dragging at his waist, his chin dragging over the front of Sam's jeans.

Sam shuddered. His dick stiffened, at the same time he felt a tidal wave of guilt. There was no way to deny he was thinking about it—had thought about it. What scared him more was that he wasn't even sure what turned him on about that—Dean on his knees in front of him, or Dean looking so broken, so needy. Jesus. They were a fucked pair—of that at least, he had no doubts.

Dean was out of the shower by the time Sam walked back inside the cabin, he was probably in bed already, and hopefully asleep. The kitchen-living room area was dark but for a small light over the counter in the kitchen. Sam thought about lighting a fire in the huge stone fireplace that made up almost the whole of one wall. It was a little chilly already and if he lit a fire, the loft would trap the heat rising upwards….

Dean was lying on his back in the bed, eyes open wide and staring at the ceiling…his hair was still damp, twisted into spirals against his forehead and Sam wanted to brush them back, the way Dean had always brushed Sam's bangs back and complained how long they were, too long to be safe....he bit his lip, and climbed into bed, and Dean didn't react to his presence. Maybe he was feeling that guilt too, maybe he was just getting sick.

Sam was almost falling asleep when he heard Dean whisper, "Sam," and felt his hand sliding along his arm. Sam blinked hard, moved out from under Dean's hand and turned his back to him. Didn't matter. He still felt Dean; it felt like all the hair on his body was electrified, and his whole skin was aware of Dean. Sam was knotted and cramped with a miserable frustration, he knew he'd be awake for hours, unable to sleep because…because of Dean.

Fortunately for Sam's sanity all those hours of driving, of being so constantly on the move, ganged up on him. His muscles twitched and pinged as they loosened, exhaustion and the heat pushed him down into a miserable kind of sleep.

Dean felt--smelled--something wonderful, warm, comfortable--soft skin under his hand, the feel of hard muscle under it,. Familiar. Comforting. As comforting as the smell of gun oil, grease, sweat ground into vinyl. Salt filled his mouth, wet skin under his tongue, he licked, and licked, slow, enjoying the feel of smooth and the burst of salt again…and again…again….

Sam woke up with a groan, his dick hard as iron and pressed damp against his shorts. Another long, wet lick smoothed up the back of his neck, and the little nip at the top of his spine made him shudder. He rocked back against Dean—and jerked awake.

"Dean—" Sam tried to move, but Dean had wrapped himself around him so tightly he couldn't. Dean surrounded him—the heat, the scent, the feel of Dean against him was making Sam's head swim. The incredible, amazing, frightening thing about it all was that it *felt* exactly like he dreamt it would. It *was* amazing—it was perfect--and it needed to stop. He wanted it so fucking much but—he needed to stop Dean now. This, whatever was happening, had to be a flashback, Dean was having—a nightmare, something. Sam couldn't let him do this, taking advantage this way was too fucked up and just plain wrong.

"Forget it—we both want this." Dean's hand pushed its way in under the band of his boxers, Sam instinctively arched into the touch. He wanted desperately to shove Dean's hand lower; Sam wanted to feel his fingers tangled in the coarse hair around his dick—

"Dean! We can't—"

"No. Turn around." Dean's hands were plucking at him, teasing, pulling, trying to coax him into turning. "Sam, come on, turn around. It's okay…."

Sam sobbed, "No, I can't. You'll have to—to make me—I can't move." He heard the little chuckle Dean breathed into his back, a softly whispered, "well, okay,"

Dean was a lot stronger than Sam remembered, it took very little effort for him to turn Sam until they were facing, arrange their limbs until they touched all along the length of their bodies. Sam breathed in, out, and risked opening his eyes—found himself an eyelash away from Dean's eyes and so close all he could see was a ring of emerald fire rimming huge dark pupils, so deep, and so black….

He was trapped, imprisoned…he was weak, and Dean took control.

The first touch, fingers gliding lightly over his dick, made him sigh, the second stronger, more confident touch, made him groan. Dean was whispering something Sam couldn't quite make out, but the soft fluttering of his lips against Sam's skin was thrilling, and the pull, stroke and tease of Dean's hand on his dick was maddening. Sam's hands flew up to grasp Dean's shoulders and he cried out for Dean to slow, to stop, and Dean just worked him harder.

"Sam, gonna come? You gonna come?" Sam felt Dean's dick dig into his thigh, the broad hot head felt huge, grinding into the crease of his thigh, slipping in the wet he was leaking---Sam bit his lip, wanting to live forever in that moment, and then Dean tightened his hand and pumped him, bit him, sucked at the thin skin right under his ear and it made everything Sam thought of as real and right, burn away like fog in sunlight….

It smelled like summer in the room, it smelled like steel and rust, like oil and come and sweat. Sam blinked and inhaled rapidly, was he dreaming? Was this real, he couldn't tell anymore, it was too much. Too…everything he'd ever wanted. The faint smell of wet vinyl made his dick throb…dreaming, yes, he was sure of it now. He was in the backseat of the car, dreaming he was under Dean and Dean was taking everything Sam had to give. Soft lips tickled his ear, warm breath brushed over it. Dean's voice in his ear, in his heart. "I love you. I need you. I want you."

This was what he'd wanted his whole life, why he'd begrudged Dean any moment he spent with *anyone* else, including Dad. Why he'd hated anything that came between them…and also why he'd run as far as he could from Dean. The conflicting actions made sense then. It was what he needed to do, to keep from going insane. Now…now, he was going crazy and he didn't give a shit anymore. Dean was fucking him, was going to come any minute, Sam knew that because he *knew* what Dean sounded like when he was coming. Hell, he'd spent his fucking formative years leaning against the bathroom door and *listening* to his older brother jerk off—Sam groaned and laughed like he was losing his mind and Dean joined him, laughing into Sam's neck until Sam moaned, "God, just make me come---"

Dean went still and the light in his eyes went deadly—he pushed in under Sam's chin, and bit him, hard, so hard. Any shred of control Sam had left fled—he fucked his brother's hand like it was the last thing he'd ever do in life, spread his legs to trap Dean's hips, let him rub against him faster, slicker, and harder. Sam was so close to coming, biting down on his hand to strangle the shout that wanted out—

Dean groaned, "There's no one to hear but you and me, stupid," and Sam came, screaming until his throat gave out. "Yeah, like that—"Dean gasped and came with him, spilling fast and hot against Sam's belly, his lips moving against Sam's neck. Sam came back to himself and realized that what Dean was murmuring into his skin was one word, repeated until he finally drifted off.

"Yours, yours, yours."

Morning was different. It was…it was weird, and uncomfortable. They kept looking at each other, but tried not to make eye-contact. Dean made coffee and Sam made pancakes and shied away every time Dean came near, until finally Dean said, "This is really awkward for you, hunh?"

Sam whipped around to stare at him. "For…me? For me?" Sam was stiff with disbelief. For me? He couldn't make his brain move forward. How could Dean even imagine that it could possibly be otherwise? This was—beyond the realm of awkward, this was truly, *insanely*, fucked up. And still, his gut ached when an image of the night before suddenly flashed in his mind. Dean grabbed his wrist, forcing Sam into meeting his eyes.

"Sam…who else? No one else knows what we know. No one else knows me like you do. After every fucking thing we've done and seen, you're going to tell me that what we did last night—that this is *worse*? I don't give a shit what anyone else thinks, neither should you." Dean glared at Sam. "We *deserve* this, damn, it. I deserve you. Don't we fucking deserve *something* good?"

"Deserve—? Dean. This isn't—normal—"

"Normal? When the fuck have we ever been *close* to normal?" Sam watched Dean move around the kitchen, snatching cups out of the cabinet as he talked, tossing spoons into them, splashing tar-black coffee into them… tried not to see Dean's body. Tried really hard not to remember what it felt like….

Dean had a point. And really, no one else was as close to him. He knew Dean like he knew no one else on the planet. He'd gone right into hell to bring him back—Dean had gone into hell to save Sam's life. One other person might have done that and being with Sam had killed her. Nothing was going to kill Dean. He was too hard, too strong. And he was telling Sam that he was Sam's alone. Dean slammed a cup down in front of him and walked away.

Sam took it, avoiding the steaming puddle it sat in, and sipped at the too hot, too strong brew—thick and bitter, the way Dean liked it. He put the cup down. "Okay. You're right."

"Wha—I mean, hell yeah, I am. Besides you've been wanting to fuck me since you hit puberty,"

"Bastard! That's so not true!"

Dean smirked and tossed a couple of pancakes on his plate. "Pretty sure it is. Eat, you're going to need to keep your strength up." He waggled eyebrows and Sam rolled his eyes. Dean was back with a vengeance. A completely non-pc and totally Dean-like vengeance.

The town was small, and the people there expressed no interest whatsoever in the outsiders, beyond polite inquires of where they were from and were they finding things okay and Sam could completely appreciate why Bobby's friend chose this area for his safe house. They'd loaded up with what they'd need for the next couple of days, plus extra staples to replace what they'd use.

It was noon before they were done, and Sam suddenly had the thought maybe they should buy lunch instead of making it, and the more he thought about it, the better an idea it became, until he was actually feeling a little antsy about feeding Dean, who smirked and took it as his due. He parked in front of a little mom-and-pop style deli that seemed odd to find in the small town—more big-city than backwoods.

He got out of the car, and the smell drifting out through the screened doorway made his nose twitch and his stomach growl. Dean gave him a lazy smile, and snuggled closer to the car door. He looked content, eyes drooping. "Bring me pie, bitch," he grumbled sleepily, and Sam laughed.

"Rii-iight, 'cause you're so full of charm," he grinned and Dean smirked back.

"Damn right."

Sam trotted across the little lot in front of the deli, heart soaring. Dean had called him 'Bitch'…and realizing that he was so thrilled his brother had insulted him made him laugh out loud. He stepped into the aromatic little shop, thinking about roast beef and thin sliced Swiss, and maybe he'd luck out and there'd be real vanilla coke, the kind made with syrup, yeah--a hero and a slice of pie for Dean--and Sam groaned. Damn it.

The hair all over his body rose and energy skated over his skin. His mouth went dry and his dick twitched, tried to fill. The woman behind the formica topped counter was gorgeous, unbelievably beautiful, red hair, full lips and deep blue eyes, almost navy really, and not even close to human.

"Hello beautiful," she said. She was leaning elbows on the counter, chin supported by long white hands, and her red nails looked like splashes of blood against her matte pale skin. Red hair piled high in loose curls framed her face in a style that had been fashionable years ago, makeup and clothes were from the same time period and it didn't make her look one bit less like living, breathing, sex. Her voice was like smoke, it wrapped around him, slid into his skin and worked its way right down to his crotch. He shifted uncomfortably--fuck, he had a hard-on straining against his pant leg.

"Stop it."

Black, black lashes fluttered and her candy pink lips pouted seductively. He felt himself lean forward a little, staring at them…"Whatever do you mean, sugar?" she asked, all hurt innocence….

Sam grit his teeth and pulled back. Her eyes were navy. He concentrated, filled his mind with the image of green eyes, thick lashes, a mouth whose shape and color rivaled hers and had a pull on him that helped Sam to ignore what she was doing to him, give him the strength to pull away. "I can see you, the real you," he ground out. "You know I can."

"Oh well, you can't blame a girl for trying." She smiled, and Sam ground his teeth hard together, thought 'Green eyes, green eyes'…

"I'm told that you received your heart's desire. I could have helped you with that—it's practically my business. All you had to do was ask." She sighed, a sound just full of disappointment and Sam's heart ached miserably for making her feel that way—he snapped his head back and forth to clear it.

She grinned briefly, lifted an eyebrow in a kind of shrug before continuing, "Samuel, you know what tricksters are like, you know they push and prod and watch the dominoes fall. That's their holy burden, their purpose. Not saying sometimes they don’t hand you something—it's the empty hand you have to worry about, sweet-cakes."

Sam huffed. Of course he knew that. He knew all tricksters in all cultures operated basically the same way. He wasn't naïve enough to think Esu operated differently. She shifted, parts shimmied and Sam ground his teeth as he *had* to watch.

"Honey-pie, you've taken the bait out of a trap un-sprung—yet. If I were you, I'd look behind the doors I open." She leaned against the counter again, flesh swelled and pinked and Sam breathed noisily though his nose and adjusted himself. "I'm curious to see what comes of such all-consuming, self-sacrificing love. I'm not really sure if even I approve. Any way, I *like* you, sugar-plum, and I'm going to do you a favor." She stood straighter, and her aspect changed, so much that Sam had to close his eyes. He heard her say—felt more than heard—" All that is yours belongs to you, that which is yours, you belong to equally. Inside, outside, by your side and cannot be divided." She brushed her hands, smiled, and was again the blowsy, slightly over-ripered-head again. "There. That will make it a titch easier for him."

Sam blinked. She'd said something, implied something. He'd had the feeling—had *known* that getting Dean back the way he did was going to come with a price, no matter what Esu had said. Sam blinked again, and inhaled. Right. In the mean time, his brother was waiting…"Um, thanks for the…thanks. Can I…I wanted to…buy something...?"

"Well 'course, honey-cakes, that's what we're here for," she smiled. "Girl's gotta make a living."

Sam ordered a roast beef and Swiss on wheat and a tuna hero, and felt…beyond bizarre. He was ordering lunch from a goddess. Dean was right. Normal was not where they lived, not even close. Sam took a deep breath, and stared at the floor, working hard on shutting out Venus or whatever name she took in this aspect. He did math and sang nursery rhymes in his head until he felt a wave of vertigo--

He looked up again when a bag waved in his range of eyesight. It wasn't her; it was a boy, a really beautiful boy. The feeling he got from him wasn't quite as strong from *her*, but it was there. He stared at the boy's mouth and shivered.

The boy poked a paper wrapped sandwich in his direction, before slipping it into the bag with the rest. "Mother made the tuna especially for your brother. Mother says make sure your brother eats all of this. It's got some dill, and thyme, some rosemary and…other good stuff in it. Make sure he eats every bit, even if he doesn't want to." He smiled and Sam blinked, released. He was pretty damn certain he hadn't mentioned his brother…though why he was surprised….

Sam handed him the money and the boy stroked his hand, from his palm to the tips of his fingers and Sam groaned a little. Still hard, painfully hard.

"Thank—thank you. Tell your mother I thank her for her kindness."

He smiled at Sam and his eyes flashed bright, bright blue. "I will. Come…visit us again. And next time, make sure you bring your brother inside."

He stood on the deli's wooden porch for a moment, breathing heavily. He held the bag tight in his hand…the feeling he'd had in the shop had almost faded by the time he was inside the car. Dean was knocked out; sleeping so hard he was snoring…Sam couldn't help but feel a little…well. He was pretty sure he'd worn Dean out but that was partly Dean's fault. He could have slept, but no, he'd had to keep pushing and pushing….

Sam grinned fondly down at what he could see of Dean, beat-up leather jacket pulled right up under a fringe of shaggy brown hair, his arms crossed over his chest. Sam patted Dean's knee, and put the Impala in drive, glanced behind him in the rear view mirror. He caught a glimpse of Venus' boy pressed against the screen door, and was rocked by a jolt that burned from his gut down to his dick. oh!—shit--He hurriedly threw the Impala into drive, eager to get away from the outworlders and their influence….

He woke Dean up and managed to manhandle him through the front door. Dean made it as far as the couch before collapsing with a curse, wincing and rubbing hard at his eyes. Deep lines wrinkled the corners, lines bracketed his mouth. He practically snarled when Sam tried to sit next to him.

"Christ, you wake up like a fucking bear," Sam complained. Dean shoved himself into a corner of the couch, pulling his knees up and locking an arm around them, making himself into a tight, belligerent ball. He used his free hand to flip Sam off.

Sam dropped the bags on the table, and flung Dean's one-fingered salute right back at him—hell, two could play this crabby game.

He pulled out the tuna hero and tossed it at Dean. "Here. Maybe food will sweeten you up some. And make sure you eat all of it."

Dean snatched up the bag. "Dude, you do not have to tell me to eat all of it. I'm fucking starving." He threw himself down next to Sam and unwrapped the hero. Sniffed it. "Smells funny."

"It's tuna," Sam said and made a face. "Isn’t it supposed to smell funny?"

"Ha. Ha." Dean tasted it and made a face. "Tastes funny." He shrugged and wolfed it down, tearing huge chunks out of it and barely chewing before swallowing."

"God, I'm so not heimliching you if you choke," Sam muttered and wandered off to the kitchen. He came back with a couple of beers, and a thoughtful look.

Dean glanced at him. "Whuff?" he said and wrestled another piece of hero down his throat.

He watched Dean eat, and with every bite he looked a little happier, a little less strained. The line that'd been digging in between his eyebrows and dragging down the corners of his eyes eased away, his skin was less waxen, less greenish looking….Venus' spell seemed to be helping Dean. Sam rubbed at his forehead. And how much, he wondered, was that going to cost him down the line? Sometimes, it really pissed him off that all these…things…kept playing with him. Especially since, he thought, and a warm little flame of anger burst through him, it might not be such a good idea to play with someone who just might be even more powerful than any of them…for a second the world shimmered. He blinked, and it steadied. He glanced at Dean and found him staring at him, open-mouthed.

"What?" He snapped.

"Sam…" Dean swallowed hard and repeated his name. He touched Sam's leg, reverently, an awe-struck expression making him look like a minute away from dropping to his knees. He looked like he was being tortured by ecstasy. He looked like he was being ripped out of himself.

It scared the hell out of Sam.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, fear making his voice rise—Dean shook himself and seemed to be waking up from a deep, deep dream.

"Come on, Dean," Sam managed to soften his voice. "Hey... you okay? You looked kind of spacey there for a moment."

"No, I'm good," Dean said and a smile grew, his whole face seemed to light up. "I'm better than good—I feel…" he rolled his shoulders and grinned. "I feel amazing. Almost as amazing as I was last night," he smirked.

Dean looked up at him, his eyes wide and brilliant green. He rolled to his feet like a cat when Sam took his hand, followed him to the bedroom. Sam pushed the door open, and nudged Dean into the room. "Ready for some down time? You look all out." Dean slipped past him, and stood by the bed. He held out his hand.

"Come here."

Sam shook his head no, but Dean made an impatient noise and said it again. "Come *here*." and Sam came as if he had no choice, pulled by whatever it was that bound them together. Dean undressed him, taking his time, mapping his body, sweeping him with gentle touches that made Sam sweat, made him hard. He watched as Dean took his own clothes off, smiling, glowing—healthier than he'd appeared in…a very long time. The white scars were nearly invisible, the lines bracketing his mouth and eyes were lighter. He lay down on the bed, and spread himself to Sam. "Fuck me."

Sam jerked in surprise. "Oh, no I don't think so. I—I much prefer, hum. Bottom, I bottom." He felt flushed, and embarrassed, and turned on all at once. He could barely imagine that Dean wanted him to…that. Fuck him. oh God…. He was hardly aware that he was stroking himself, staring at Dean. Thinking.

Dean pulled himself up on his elbows, tilted his head at Sam. His tone was puzzled, confused, "But…but you have to. You're the…one. You're *supposed* to fuck me. I need you to."

"What?" Sam felt like he'd walked into the bedroom and right into an alternate dimension—submissive Dean? Sam shivered. Or did he think…he owed Sam this? Maybe he didn't have any other way to express gratitude. Maybe Dean thought…was he trying to pay for his freedom with the only thing he had to give—

"Hey! Einstein!" Dean was yelling, snapping his fingers. "Fucking stop thinking, and get over here--*now*!"

Sam jumped again. "Hunh?"

"I said get over here, damn it." Sam found himself on the bed, and Dean climbed up into his lap. "Stupid," He said fondly, and cupped Sam's face. "I know you, as well as you know me—hell, better. You think I don’t want this, don't you? Well guess what? I'd kill for this. This time around, we do what we know is right for us. Screw everyone else."

Sam thought, in the normal course of things, being called stupid would—should--be an enormous turn-off, but like everything with Dean, should-be got turned upside down and inside out--and he was even more turned on than he'd been in the deli earlier. Being with Dean was like living in Bizarro world, cold was hot and up was down and stupid meant lover and Dean's teeth in his neck was a kiss….

Dean was slicking him up, pumping his dick to rock hardness, and then squirming in Sam's lap as he prepared himself—"Just a little, I like to feel it," he gasped and Sam froze. He couldn't imagine Dean getting fucked, and when he tried to picture it, his eyes fluttered shut and he thrust up, groaning.

Sam loved getting fucked. Loved feeling a dick spread him; drive into him, hot and hard, making him throb around it. He loved the electric shiver he got when it stroked over that spot…yeah, he loved it…but *this*…God damn, this had never felt so good before, so fucking good….

Dean threw his head back and pinched his lower lip between gleaming teeth, moaned deep in his throat. "Oh yeah, yeah, this is good, Sam," he panted, "s'good. Faster…."

Sam wrapped his hands around Dean's hips and moved him, yanked Dean down while he moved up--tried to hit that spot that always made him feel like he was filled with lightning—Dean's face reddened, his breath was coming faster, and each shove inward dragged a moan out of him, a gasp of pleasure…"fuck me, fuck me," he chanted and Sam tried his best and then Dean was begging, "Sam! Sam, let me, let me, I need it…."

Sam felt himself pulse, almost come when he got what Dean was asking, begging for permission. "Yeah, go ahead, bring yourself off, let me see." Sam thought tomorrow the guilt was going to kill him, but tonight, he was going to enjoy every unbelievable minute of it. He watched Dean and wondered how anyone who'd ever slept with him could have let him get out of bed again…".s'fucking amazing, beautiful, come, come on, boy--let go--"

Dean moaned loud…his mouth dropped open, his eyes narrowed to jade slits…he bared his teeth and howled as he came hard, ivory splashes pearled on Sam's chest, his stomach.

Sam felt Dean come from the inside, and then Sam was coming, feeling Dean get hotter, and slicker and Dean was right, this was so, so *so* fucking good….

It felt like hours later when Dean unstuck himself from Sam's chest and muttered, low and to himself, "Okay, now it's right…now it's true."

Sam wondered just what the hell Dean meant, but he was tired and drifting, and Dean said, "Next time, I'm fucking you." which was entirely distracting and Sam forgot all about what he'd meant to ask….

Dean was walking through the woods, on the trail that Sam had told him led to a lake. The thought of a swim was nice, water, a little sun…the quiet. He needed a little time alone. It itched under his skull, this need for a little distance, just for a little bit….

The forest floor was thick with decaying vegetation, air full of the odd dark chocolate smell of fertile soil, the bright, almost sour green scent of growing things laced through it. He felt light, alive, felt like he was holding something bright and warm inside himself. Sam.

Something big was coming through the trees, heading up the trail instead of down to the lake—Dean froze. It smelled alive--rank, dark, smelled of blood and pain--it crashed through the woods higher up the trail and Dean couldn't stand it anymore, he tore after it, breath whistling in his throat, his heart pounding with excitement. It moaned, whatever it was, the moan tinged with the thick salt flavor of pain. Dean swallowed, scrubbed his hand over his wet mouth as he ran and the faster he ran, the more he wanted.

He leaped logs and roots, broke past clinging, whipping branches, pushed through tangled clots of vines, until he burst into a little clearing and the smell of meat and blood nearly rocked him, overloaded his senses—there was a stag in front of him, antlers filling the pathway from side to side, and nearly as tall at the shoulder as Dean—it was the color of sunlight, but the eye it turned to him was red and yellow and whirled like flames in its skull and then—

And then it was gone and the world went white.

An angel—no, a demon. Demon. It spread wings, or maybe a cloak or maybe hair or just its arms wide, it smiled, and all around them leaves curled and blackened or burst into flames, little gnats dropped out of the air. dog! i missed you!

Dean scrambled backward out of its reach. "I don’t know you."

oh my, you hurt us. It touched its chest, and made a frown, its features writhing a bit until it settled on the appropriate expression. come here.

Dean found himself moving right into its arms. It touched his forehead. remember.

The trail, the forest, the sun disappeared. It was dark, fire snapped and roared all around them, ice creaked and erupted from the ground before flaming off into the endless limitless darkness….

The thing in front of Dean moved restlessly, continuously, as if it was over-filled with energy—it ran claw-tipped fingers between its double row of breasts, with the other hand, played with it's dick, another hand gripped Dean's shoulder so hard, blood ran, another gripped a handful of hair, claws digging deep into Dean's scalp. Dean cried, tears ran down his cheeks and the thing leaned forward to lick them away, leaving burning blisters in the wake of its tongue. Dean shuddered and fell to his knees. The hand gripping his hair pulled him to its dick, long, curved and barbed. Its flesh was like razors, the fluid dripping onto Dean's tongue like acid. It shoved forward until it was seated in his throat. He couldn't scream, couldn’t breathe, his heart pounded, chest heaved and his throat was bleeding inside….

It twisted its long red face down to Dean's/ oh, you can't breathe. i'm sorry…It poked a finger through his throat. there. now you can--

When it came, his throat was swimming in acid and blood and it poured out of the breathing hole and made his skin smoke. It jerked out of his throat and his flesh felt like it was turning inside out. It waited until Dean managed to croak, "Thank you." It snapped its fingers and Dean came….

He was on his knees in the dirt, back in the forest, back on the trail again and the demon looked like some average camper come wandering out in the woods, pleasant and boring and filled to the brim with bad. It had its seamed, too soft hands wrapped around Dean's face. Watery blue eyes in a nest of wrinkles twinkled at him. "Here you are, our lost pet. Stolen before we finished you. Head's rolled, pretty, blood was spilled…but in the end, it seems it's all worked out for the best, dear. You were quite the project, courser. Taking apart what you were--you had to want to be more, to love another. Too amusing," it said, and shook its head, flinging thin white braids back and forth. "You had no voice to express it, no experience in it. Taking something that only knew chase and kill and eat—twisting, altering those desires just enough to make it think it felt love. Giving you a voice, ah darling, that was the best joke of all. Even better than redrawing your blueprint." It stroked its wrinkled tiny hand along Dean's cheek; the expression a fond grandmother might make creasing its face. "And when those concepts were deep in your brain, we opened the tops of your heads and mixed you like salad. All Dean Winchester felt, all he was, you also know."

Dean shook, his stomach churned…"You're lying--you fucking *bitch*!" Memories came pouring up into his head but he pushed them away. "I know who I am," he gargled, the words impossibly pushing past the ruin of his throat. "I'm Dean Winchester, John and Mary's son, Sam's brother and you're the—the prince of lies. Fuck you."

"Well, not actually the prince—more of a—duke? But in this instance, we're telling you the truth, dear courser. We have no reason to lie to something like you. You are our precious pet, always have been. We had such a lovely plan, now smashed to bits," it hissed. Suddenly, it was furious—beyond the capacity of its stolen body to contain. The frail bones creaked, seamed skin smoked, blistered and white braids curled up and blew away in wisps of grey ash.

Dean moaned in fear and fell to his face, covered his eyes. "But you, changeling. You still have the chance to be the weapon we created you for. It's wonderful, how every moment you spend with him changes him, tweaks him….

"Do you like how Sam's thoughts mold you? Do you like Dean's memories—" It stopped and pushed its fingers into Dean's head, the snap and crunch of breaking bone was deafening. Dean lost the way to breathe, or move, or scream.

"Oh, ho. Now that's interesting. Surely this wasn't in the…master piece." It grinned and teeth shone all over and Dean went blind.

Sam blinks. First there was dark and then there was light, and a thousand, thousand doors, all around him, climbing into the sky, and dropping down below his feet, and left and right, all he could see. A thousand, thousand different kinds of doors. A thousand, thousand colors and shapes and outlines….

There's a man sitting in the air draped in robes that cover him from head to toe ands Sam's kind of glad about that. He's tall, and seems to have an animal's skull, a greyhound's thin, curved, head, two stiff tall ears on either side of his bone-white skull hold the fabric of the robe over his head and then—he's just a person. Just a person—Sam laughs at himself. How fucked up is his life that he can even think that—' just a person'. A person who's floating in nothingness, surrounded by doors ranging from fantastic to ordinary, and all of them floating in a void. The robe slides and reveals a pleasant face, but white, white skin and dull red hair, eyes the color of milky jade. He looks familiar. "sit, my friend." He curls his hand towards Sam and pats the space next to him. Sam drops down. "so, Samuel, life has taken an interesting turn for you, has it not?"

"So, Samuel…and his brother? It laughed like breaking crystal. "This is perfect, he's put an even sharper edge on the knife." It withdrew its fingers, dropped Dean to the ground. He pulled himself up, arms shaking with the strain as the world came back, fear came back. Blood poured over his chin when he opened his mouth but he forced the words out, wanting the thing to hear him, believe him.

"I'm Dean Winchester, I'm real, and there's nothing I wouldn't do for my brother—including dying for him, you bitch."

It rolled its eyes, and exhaled a sharp, impatient breath. Snapped its fingers and there was no Dean. Just howling and screaming, the smell of blood and offal, the taste of meat and marrow. Who are you? The question had no meaning, none at all. What are you?

Knife, axe, arrow, your quiver…It snapped its fingers again, and Dean rolled across the ground, screaming.

An interesting turn? Well, I suppose that depends on what you're talking about…my current job can be interesting. My social life kind of sucks, what with you guys poking your noses in everywhere. That's annoying more than interesting—"

"Ah, a sense of humor. Very good. Tell me; do you have any idea what the demons want with you?"

"I have an idea, yes…I think. I think they want me to open…well, a door to hell." Sam looked around himself. "I had no idea it was meant literally. It's kind of silly, isn't it? All these doors?"

Set shrugs. "We let you see it however you want—saves brain cells." He nods and points in a direction, his eyes locked on Sam's. "The beings you call demons are just one of a species of "outworlders". If you open a door to their world, it boils out here and they'll own your world—what they leave of it. . But if you open many doors—"

Sam grimaced. "Wouldn't that be chaos?"

Is long skull bobbed. "Yes. But of course, chaos is divine." It smiled with its blue white teeth, as if it should be obvious to anyone what a good idea that was.

Sam wasn't sure that its definition of divine, and his, were quite the same thing. "What if I open no doors?"

"Well…that's certainly a possibility, certainly an option. A boring one. Not likely, though. Destiny, fate…" It shrugged and Sam winced. There was a suggestion of way too much movement under those robes…. "I have something here." It held up a box covered on every side with small squares that had the look of tiny windows—or doors.

Sam snorted with a show of contempt he was absolutely not feeling. "What, is it a medieval Rubik's cube?"

"You really do have a wonderful sense of humor," it said brightly. "I'm sure that comes in handy. Would you care to look inside?"

The box opened, with no fanfare at all—no bright blinding light, no bizarre buzzing as of a million flies, no eldritch moaning, but Sam's hand shot out in a panic, struggling to shut the box. He had no doubt what was inside was nothing he should see, or could see—"No, I don't—"

no—it was everywhere and nowhere. It was inside and it was outside and he screamed when his body tried to follow it, take him in and pull him out at once. It felt like…bathing in and breathing in glass--

When he could breathe again, he was ten feet from where he had been, drenched in sweat and alone.

"Now, that's a taste of what happens when you open the doors."

Sam shrieked and whirled around, his lungs working overtime. The red-headed thing was still there, smiling at him like he was a toddler who'd done something particularly adorable. "Not to worry, you'll figure it out after a while. And the best thing of all is you don't have to do it alone. I know how you boys are about that. The funny thing is, those demons gave you the only thing that can follow *you* anywhere. Anywhere, any-when you care to go. Now, that—*that's* funny," it said, and smiled.

"I don't know what you're talking about—demons and doors and fuck all! I stepped away from this shit the moment they took—

"But you took the gift, and you're back in the game. Now, you just have to decide—one door or all doors. Maybe the door you know. It might not go that badly after all. I could live with it," it said, and laughed. "See? Humor, I have it too."

Sam rubbed at his eyes, hoping that this was just a dream and in a moment, he'd wake up and everything would be no more fucked up than usual....

It kept on smiling, nodding and its skin flushed with color as it nodded, and Esu's caramel green-eyed face was peering up at him from under the robe…"This I tell you, Samuel, is the most important thing of all. Trust no one."

Shuddering all over with a deep indrawn breath, Sam woke up. A wave of disorientation swept him before he remembered—the cabin, they were safe at the cabin. A warm weight pressed against him, Dean spread over the bed, and a leg thrown over him. Sam blinked hard, chasing sleep away. He'd had a dream, pretty sure it was a weird one about…the X-Files? And being late for school? Something odd.

Dean whimpered in his sleep, and Sam rubbed his shoulder, "Hey. Psst. Wake up—Dean, wake—"

Dean woke up all at once and launched himself at Sam. "God, you're real—I had this awful dream you were—you were gone and I was all alone and something horrible was chasing me, and…and a lake?"

"What?"

Dean shrugged. "I wanted to go swimming? But now, I'm hungry."

Sam smiled. "Wow, that's a shock."

"Shut up. Feed me. And it better clog my veins, bitch. No healthy shit."

The sun shone through the bare black bones of the trees that lined Bobby's property. Rusted out cars ringed the worn house—everything was the same as he remembered it. The place looked like shit, and it made him smile, just laying eyes on it. Memories. Good, bad, but mostly it felt like coming home again.

The Impala shuddered to a stop, the engine sounding reluctant to die. Sam squeezed and stroked the steering wheel like it was a live thing, sitting there, looking at the house and just…breathing. "Well, here we are, home. Or the closest we ever had to one." He got out of the car, and Dean followed, peered at the once blue wreck of a house with one eye, shuffled his feet some. He definitely looked…unconvinced, Sam thought.

"…yeah. I guess..." Dean turned slow circles in the dusty driveway, forehead wrinkled, eyes narrowed. "I…I guess."

Sam started up to the side porch and Dean did that thing he'd taken to doing, following Sam, arms cocked just a little—guarding Sam's back. Sam didn’t even have to look behind him to know what Dean looked like, how he was tailing him like…like a gunslinger. They walked up the steps, each tread creaking out a warning. Dean gasped a little and rubbed his face, his other hand drifted up to grip Sam's arm.

"You okay, dude? You look a little grey," Sam asked, face creased with worry, his hand poised to rap on the door.

"'Course I am. Why wouldn't I be?" Dean scoffed, and said, annoyed, impatient, but it sounded forced, "Knock all ready, come on."

Sam still felt a lick of worry. Something was…off. There was something about…the light…the smell…an itch under his skin; a tickling along his spine had him looking behind him, around him. He shook his head--drama queen. Bobby was going to be glad to see them, once he got over the shock of seeing Dean—and probably half-drowning them both in holy water. He knocked once and the door flew open.

"Finally! I been trying to get a hold of you since the middle of September, damn it, where the fuck have you been—" There was movement in the shadows behind Bobby, and a weird kind of déjà vu but…with scent? Like a smell that Bobby shouldn't have? "I got one huge ass surprise for you, boy—you're not going to believe—"

A shaft of sunlight pierced the gloom inside the old house, revealing a dark figure behind Bobby, it moved and a glint of light sparked off a pendant resting on a broad chest, the light shifted and green eyes and a big, sardonic, slash of a smile hit him like an axe between the eyes—at the very same moment, Bobby was cursing a blue streak and struggling to get through the door. Sam whirled around, and stared at Dean behind him—Dean stared back, his face gone white and all the lines, the thin scars that webbed his skin flared blood red. As Sam watched, Dean's eyes grew wider, and the jade was swallowed by black. Before he could move Bobby was there on the porch with him. Sam was driven back against the porch rail, pain exploding in his back. An arm slammed into his chest, almost knocking him over the railing. All he could see was Bobby's red face, Bobby's twisted mouth, yelling. "Sam—" A bright star of pain exploded over his breast bone and Dean was there, grabbing at his shirt, shaking him so hard—"What did you do?"

Sam shook his head, trying to clear it, his lungs tightened against his effort to breathe…over the shouting he heard growling, high and unpleasant—

Bobby was in his face, shouting again, "What the fuck have you done boy--what have you done?" Sam heard a low groan of pain and horror behind him, and…and…

The only clear thought he had was get down, get away—

He—pushed, with his mind, with his body—felt it, like putting his finger in a live outlet, when Dean and Bobby slammed into the house, hard enough to knock off a few of the rusted out hubcaps nailed to the wall. Felt it ripple over him when he vaulted backward over the porch rail and hit the ground face up, knocking the wind out of himself. He gagged for breath, rode out a full body wave of pain. His hands scrabbled through the dirt, driving sharp bits of gravel into his palms and those little stars of pain brought his brain back on line…he was up with the first full breath he could drag into his lungs, scrambled on hands and knees through the dust. When he could get his feet under him, he ran blindly until he hit something hard. Sam threw his arms out to break his fall and he was staring Dean in the eyes. Dean looked sick, his eyes were flat, blank—but his hands held Sam securely in a gentle grip. Hands that knew every part of him--

"Sam—Sam, get down—"

The flat crack of a gunshot broke the odd silence--Dean flinched and whirled so that he was crowding Sam behind him, shielding him with his body.

"No—don't—" Sam grabbed at Dean, tried to push him away. Over Dean's shoulder he saw…he saw *Dean*, aiming at them—aiming at the man trying to cover him. Sam felt like he was being pulled backwards through hell…through all the doors he could see clearly, doors that surrounded him everywhere…he blinked and the Dean holding him knocked him to the ground and the Dean on Bobby's porch shot again and the Dean standing over him went down, screaming.

The sound of his brother's voice screaming in pain overrode everything, any confusion of sight or feeling. Instinct made him grab the man up, and he was running, screaming himself. Sam ignored the panicked shouts behind him. His hands were fisted in Dean's jacket and pulling him along, refusing to open his eyes, his body was focused on one thing—get to the car. He hit the side of the Impala hard, heard an outraged "Hey!" from behind him that made him bark a wild laugh—fucking Dean, worried about the fucking car—he was scrabbling at the handle, and when the door popped open, shoved Dean inside. Hot blood slicked his hands, making it hard to open his door, to slip the key into the ignition. He was ready to scream before he managed to jam the key home--gunned it, ignored the smack of palms against the glass and flew down the rutted dirt road. Dean's head rolled and bounced against the passenger window. He was panting in pain, the gouges the bullets tore in his shoulder and arm were black…the blood ran black. His eyes rolled toward Sam, pupils too deep, whites too wide—"Never hurt you, never," he panted.

"Shut up!" Sam pounded on the steering wheel, screamed, "What happened? What did I do?"

Dean coughed blood, his breath coming in a low liquid gurgle. He moaned, "Saved me. You saved me."

Sam could *hear* it, the way the blood hissed and bubbled, in the way silver made a werewolf's blood react, siren's blood, shifter's blood…he swallowed against the acid that rose in his throat. "What are you?" Sam demanded, and tried to ignore the other's flinch, the way his face paled even more, until freckles stood out like a spray of blood. God…dark as the blood splashed against his neck and over his shoulder, arm…."I said what the fuck are you?"

"Dean—your brother—" the voice broke on a sob and that pissed Sam off even more, made his chest hurt, his throat close around a lump. Made him want to hurt something. Fucking kill something.

"No!" Sam screamed again. "I want the truth!"

"I don't know—fuck, I don't know! I thought. I thought....up until today, I was pretty sure I was Dean Winchester…"

Sam gaped at Dean, the car slewed before he could tear his gaze away. "Pretty sure? What the fuck does that *mean*, pretty sure?"

"Sam…those beings you see? I see 'em too. I see all of them…I see ghosts when no one else does, not even you. They…they hover like silver clouds in the air, against the ceilings of rooms, until they come to know they can look like…what you see. I see the other places, places that are doorways to hell, or doorways to worlds that your groupies—" he tried to laugh and it twisted into a moan of pain. "--your groupies come from. I look at you and you're frightening, and amazing, and *beautiful* and I know why those things follow you. They want you too. Who can see all that Sam, but monsters? Am I some kind of monster?"

"Yes." Sam felt tears on his face, his stomach twisted and twisted, and he stopped the car on the side of the road and then he was tearing through knee high weeds away from the road…running and running until he fell to his hands and knees and vomited like he was trying to tear organs loose. He pulled his gun out of his waistband, his hand trembled as it rose, batted against his jaw, wavered across his chin until the curve of his lower lip stopped it….

His phone rang, and he laughed out loud. Sam's busy blowing his brains out now, leave a message at the tone…

"Sam," he heard clearly, even with the phone on the ground next to him, chirping in the grass where he'd dropped it. "You bring that thing back here, and let's get on with our lives, okay? Sam? Come back, damn it."

He wanted to stop the noise, wanted to stop his brain. He scooped up the phone. "I have to think," Sam said. "I have to think what I'm going to do." The Taurus was propped on his thigh, the phone in the grass by his knee, and Dea—the other in the car parked at the roadside, hadn't moved. Good. He needed room to breathe, to think--"I don’t know what's happening yet. It's too much."

"Sam, what's there to think about? You know it's not natural, you know that much. Come on back. We'll figure out what it—he—is and maybe we won’t have to hurt…him."

"God, you couldn't sound less believable—" Sam laughed and wiped his free hand across his eyes. "I'm sorry…but I can't. I just…not yet." He disconnected, and sobbed. After a second, he dropped the phone again, and with a curse, slammed the butt of the gun into it. He burst into wild laughter when it skittered, without so much as a scratch, across the flattened patch of grass. "All right, I get it—nothing I want's going to happen…" He stuffed the phone into his pocket, and wiped his nose. "Okay…start thinking."

A breeze swept the field, whispering through the grass, and lifting the strands of hair falling over his eyes. He shivered hard, feeling lonely, feeling—fuck. Gutted. He heard the squeak of the Impala's door opening. He slid the Taurus under his thigh, thumbed the safety off.

"Sam…" Sam looked up, at Dean. Last night, he'd fucked Dean. He'd kissed him, and felt like…like his world was solid again. Felt like everything he'd ever wanted had finally come to pass—the life he'd craved. He'd thought Dean was damaged, but together, they'd make things work because they loved each other—not just lovers, not just brothers, something better, and wonderful, something that was just theirs. And now….

He trained the gun on the thing in front of him. His hand was steady as a rock even as he blinked tears away. "Why?"

"Sammy—"

Sam hissed and stood, jammed the gun into the—the changeling's neck. It staggered back, choking, but it didn't go down and it never took its eyes from Sam's and it…it had the nerve to look as if it had been crying. Sam pushed harder, until it was nearly on its toes. "I want to know, what's going on. You might as well tell me everything, because I'm going to kill you one way or another." Dean—Sam had to name it. Had to call it something. wanted it to be Dean, wanted it to be yesterday

Dean nodded, swallowed and the gun rode out the motion. He—it blinked, eyes red and swollen. "I know. I would too. But I don't know why I'm here. Except, I swear, I couldn't do anything to hurt you, you have to believe that…I'd give my life for you. Shoot if it's what you have to do." He closed his eyes and lashes swept his cheeks. Sam ground his teeth—so fucking *unfair*.

Sam was starting to shake now, his wrist was aching, his fingers. "Was any of it real? Did we spend the whole summer in some nightmare? Some fucked up dream?"

"Sammy—"

"Don't, god damn it! Don’t fucking call me that. Don't…" The gun slipped, and Dean swallowed, licked his lips. Sam hated that he had to follow that little motion. He knew how it felt, loved how it felt.

Dean nodded. "Okay—okay, just--I love you. Tell me what to do. If it hurts you too much to do it, I'll do it myself." Dean shuddered, and shrunk a little in his skin. Muttered, "I think…silver's not going to do it alone, I think a head shot—"

"Shut up! Shut up!" Sam found himself a few feet away from Dean, panting, not really knowing how he got there.

Dean had that same dumbfounded look on his face, that look of near-worship he'd had once before. He murmured, "Sam," and dropped to his knees, bowed his head. "If you don’t want me, send me back to hell—I can't be anyone without you, anyway."

"Dean. Dean, fuck." He dropped the gun, and turned away. "I can't."

Dean crawled to where Sam was shaking to bits, reached his hand out carefully, and stroked fingers over the hem of his jeans. Sam shuddered, "Stop that, don't…do that. I need you to…to go back to the car."

Dean jerked his hand back, and rolled to his feet. "Okay," he nodded, and almost smiled. "That's—that's good, right? I--I figured you were going to leave me out here." The smile twisting his lips hurt Sam almost as much as knowing that he…was different. Dean turned and walked back to the car, Sam behind him. When they reached the car, Dean stopped. "Do you want me to sit in the back or." He grimaced, and his voice frayed, but he forced out, "The trunk?"

God. "No—no room in there. Just get in the damn car." Sam threw himself in the car and Dean dropped into the passenger seat. "Dean. Dean," Sam repeated, and looked at the man next to him. "I can't believe that you're not…you're you. I can't help seeing just you."

Dean stared into his lap. "I am just me. I'm the person you rescued, the person who loved you yesterday, and the day before that, and the years before that…"

Sam moved Dean's hand away, where it crushed the fabric over his knee. "Just let me think, okay? Let's just find some place so I can think."

They checked into a drab, cracker box of a motel, left all their gear in the car—they weren't staying long enough to do anything but catch a few hours of sleep. The room was dark, stuffy, but fine for the night…in the morning maybe he'd know what to do. Tonight, he was letting his battered brain and body do its best to rest.

Dean stood by the door, next to the bags. He looked wrung out and beat up. Sam hadn't even looked at his shoulder and ignored the twinge—the *blast*--of guilt that came on the heels of that thought. Dean swayed, licked dry, cracked lips. "Ah…do you want…should I sleep here? Or…I could sit outside, watch the car…"

Sam grabbed the bridge of his nose and rubbed hard. Dean was asking him for permission. To sleep. "Jesus—just--get on the bed," he snapped, and Dean looked pathetically grateful. "Take your stuff off." Sam hated the wary hope that flared in the other's eyes. He turned away without a word, and unzipped one of the duffels, took out the first aid kit.

When he turned back to the bed, Dean was slumped, his head resting on his hands, staring at what passed for carpet. His posture screamed defeated. Resigned. "So, you're going to patch me up. Not killing me tonight, hunh?"

"You know what, if you don't shut the fuck up, I'll kill you right now. Lemme see that shoulder." Sam yanked the collar of the shirt, ripping it open. The shoulder was swollen, bruised where the bullets had ripped gouges; the edges of the wounds looked chewed. Sam noticed a faint smell, as if the flesh was necrotic. His lips twisted with disgust and a faint twinge of sympathy. The silver had done that. It must have hurt horribly. The pain must still be incredible—he felt Dean's minuscule jerks under his hand, heard his breath hitch as Sam probed at the wounds.

"Come on." He prodded Dean into the bathroom, and sat him on the toilet. Under the un-shaded bulb, Dean looked gray, shivered the whole time Sam washed the wounds but said nothing—not a word, not a moan. He kept his eyes trained on the tiles, and when it seemed the pain got too much for him, he twisted the hem of his torn tee-shirt in his hands but never once asked Sam to stop, or reached out to him….

When he decided the gouges were clean enough, Sam pulled gauze and tape out of the kit, thought about it for a few seconds and then, took a small silver flask out and laid it next to the gauze. Dean eyed it with a trace of fear, bit his lip, but was silent.

Sam picked up the flask, and said, "Okay. This is might hurt. Is probably going to hurt. I…I hope it doesn't, but it if I'm right…it should sort of cauterize the wounds." He hoped that he was wrong, that it wouldn't do a damn thing…he tipped a splash of holy water into the wounds and Dean's head snapped back.

No. No, fuck, fuckfuck--Watching the water boil furiously, watching Dean pant hard and whine through clenched teeth as the holy water ate like acid into his flesh was a nightmare--the ultimate nightmare—Sam felt weirdly disconnected, unattached to what was happening here. Nothing felt real. His eyes traced the course of the water dripping down Dean's chest and idly noted it ran clear, normal. He didn't notice his hands shaking, didn't feel his heart racing.

Dean dropped his head, the panting got harsher, faster and he listed suddenly to one side. Instinct sent Sam jumping forward, to reach out and catch Dean. It was--he could feel Dean's pain, it flowed under his fingers, hot and twitching, burning like it was his own. It was like a switch flipped, and everything rushed back in, right under his skin. He couldn't help himself…he laid a hand against Dean's cheek for moment and felt Dean lean into it…"Hey—do you need me to stop?"

"'M'okay. Okay," he slurred, "Finish." Sam pressed a gauze pad against the area, instructed Dean to hold the pad tight. He wrapped Dean's shoulder as well as he could and when he was confident the gauze would stay in place he stepped back, staring at…the other. After a long moment he walked out of the bathroom, and returned with a flask of JB from out of the duffle. He poured Dean a shot in the plastic bathroom cup.

"Drink this."

Dean gulped it, wiped his mouth with a sigh. "Another?"

Sam filled the cup, and Dean drank it down, eyes closed. "Go to sleep," Sam said, and walked away.

He sat in the Impala and called Bobby's number. He cursed himself when it was Dean who answered instead, though really, why should his screwed up life start to improve now?

"Stop being stupid and come back, Sam…please. It's not like I don't get it—you've been through a lot of shit, you're confused. But you know the truth now…whatever it is, whatever it's been telling you, it's a lie. Monsters…that's what they do, Sam. They find your weak spot and they fuck you up."

"It's not like that," Sam said, and hated how weak, how uncertain he sounded. "He's not…he needs me."

"And I don’t? You're my brother. I need to know you're safe. I need you here. The silence stretched until Sam was sure Dean had disconnected, and then, his brother sighed, spoke again. Listen…if word gets around that you're carting some…some freak *thing* around with you, what do you think's going to happen, hunh?"

"Dean…"

"*You're* going to be hunted. Hunters will take it as a—a—sign, you understand me? You'll never be able to stop if you run, Sam; you'll be looking over your shoulder all the time—"

Sam laughed miserably, and sunk lower in the seat. He cupped the phone to his face, when he could bring himself to speak again, he felt like all the life had drained out of him. "How 'bout you tell me how that'll be different, Dean—like I don't have life-long experience with being scared, looking over my shoulder—" The reply he got was in that same tone, the voice sad, raw, the voice of a much older man. Dean, the real Dean, sounded like Dad.

"Yeah, well, you never saw me back there before."

"Dean, you can do that? I *love* you…loved you…"

"Damn it. Me too, Sammy, you're my brother but…shit. I'd never *want* to hurt you. I won't. You know that. But I'd save you from yourself. After all we fought for, and what I gave—I can't have you throw that away."

"I don't…I thought I saved you, Dean. I *did*. I mean…I was sure…" Sam shook his head, too full of emotion to speak.

"Sam—Sammy, come on--"

"And you don't love me, not the way I mean—I need. You can't, I know that. And…I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. I screwed up."

"Sam…" His brother wrestled his voice back from a shout, to an agonized whisper. "I can't let it live, Sam."

Sam tried to breathe. "I know. I just. Give me some time." He broke the connection and dropped the phone. His brother didn't get it. It wasn't like—like—this false Dean showed up on his doorstep, lying his way into Sam's life. Sam had fought for him; they'd worked hard together, to help him be something like normal. Sam couldn't just turn his back on him, hand him over like…some stray animal.

There was a part of Sam that wished that he'd never done any of it, wished he was free of it, and safe home with his brother. But, there was also that part of him that couldn't imagine not having done it….

He went back into the room, and stood over this Dean's bed, watching him sleep, listening to the tiny, helpless whimpers he made in his sleep. Dean was out hard—the pain-killer he'd palmed into the JB should keep him out for a while. Sam pulled the Taurus out, letting the weight settle his hand, his thoughts. He aimed, focusing on a freckle between the—Dean's eyebrows. One shot, and it would all end. He swallowed. End everything. There really was no going back for him. Dean and Bobby were…another life, a life he couldn't fit back into, anymore than he could fit back into his New York life. Being with this person had changed everything.

Sam looked down the barrel at the freckle. At the monster with his brother's face. Who'd come into the world needing him. Had suffered so much, and done it all for Sam. Just like his brother had. Had sworn to protect him, just like his brother had. Given Sam everything he had to give...what monster does that?

What kind of monster jumps in front of a bullet for you?

Dean made a noise and woke up, staring up at Sam. He closed his eyes again. "It's okay," he whispered.

It was not fucking okay—it was the furthest thing ever from okay. Sam took the clip out of the gun. Whatever happened next, he'd deal with. Whatever it took, he'd do it. Fuck. He had to keep Dean. It was supposed to be—had to be. Dean was made for him, right? That meant he was fucking keeping him. "You…you know how in--in the movies, the good guys say 'it's us against everyone?'"

"Yeah…?" came the careful reply.

Sam pressed fingers against his closed eyes and groaned. "That probably sucks more ass than you can imagine."

Dean licked his lips, and jade eyes mellowed to a soft green. He pushed himself up until his shoulders were pressed against the headboard, and stared at Sam, his gazed darting between Sam and the gun held by his side. "Yeah. I bet it does."

Sam snorted. He laid the gun on the nightstand, yanked his shirts off and dropped them, kicked off his shoes and hesitated. He glanced at the second bed, and back at Dean.

"Do you want to lay down here? I won't touch you, I promise." He looked so sincere, trying hard to be brave, so Sam nodded; entirely certain it was a very bad idea. "Okay, then," Dean said and held up the blanket and pushed himself to the very edge of the bed, away from Sam.

Sam got in, and shoved himself against Dean's chest. After a shocked inhale and a beat or two, soft lips pressed fleetingly to the top of Sam's spine, made him shudder. "I swear to God, it's going to be okay, Sam."

Sam thought maybe some day he could learn to live with that.

They were well out of South Dakota before Sam felt safe enough to stop. He picked a nondescript place, the kind of place that looked like its clientele were mostly transients. Inside, it was dark and cool, and the air was thick with the smell of things frying. There was no attempt to be anything than what it was, a cheap place to eat--just wood floors and chairs along a counter, a few booths against the back wall of the place. Dean headed towards a booth that let them see the exits….

The smell of the place, the buzz of conversation, orders being shouted and the clash of silverware—places like this was where Sam felt most at home. Cheap out of the way diners like this were the kind of places he'd spent a good part of his childhood in, eating breakfast and lunch and dinner, doing homework, or just waiting--for Dad, for Dean--

"Places like this are pretty much like coming home to me," he said, and Dean tilted his head. Sam hesitated, but had to ask. "Do you…remember stuff like this?"

Dean looked away, the straw in his hands suddenly fascinating. "Yeah. I remember sitting in this one place, felt like all day, sucking on a watery coke, and watching you. Waiting for you to finish your homework, I think, so we could go back to a real crummy ass room. I remember we took turns sleeping in that place, to watch out for roaches. You really hate—hated--them." Dean bent the straw back and forth as he talked, watched that action like it was all that was important in the world. "I know those memories aren't mine," he whispered.

"Yeah." Sam shook his head—it was still—impossible to imagine. To believe. "Do you think…do you remember anything…else?"

"You mean like, before whatever this is happened to me?" He shook his head. "Not really. I remember running, I remember…hurting, all the time. Being horribly hungry and thirsty, and angry, just so fucking angry and wanting to hurt back. But not. Not real memories. Just feelings. They made me to hurt you, I think. But I wouldn't. Won't."

"You know what? Out of all the shit that's happened last few days…I don’t know why, but that's the only thing I'm sure of," Sam said, and Dean's expression didn't change, but his eyes lit up.

They waited for their order, and Dean's arm drifted, slowly, hesitantly, until it ended up across the back of the bench. It hovered behind him, until Sam leaned back, and then his fingers stealthily curled in the hair tucked into Sam's collar, and Sam heard the breath Dean let go. And really, it felt *good*, damn it. Dean was warm and solid, pressed into his side. Sam let himself relax, fucking refused to think about anything else but how good it felt to be sitting still and doing nothing for a precious few moments.

Of course, that couldn't last.

Over the diner door, there was an old school style clock, a huge saucer of a thing, with roman numerals printed around its face. The noise the thing made caught his attention. Tick-tock, tick-tock…when he looked down again, a familiar, smiling figure was tucked into the seat across from them. Dean was pale and stiff, his head down, hand locked on Sam's thigh hard enough to make him groan—in pain and in annoyance at their uninvited guest. "I'd like to say it's good to see you, but…" Sam shrugged and Dean sharpened all over, still with his head down but his whole appearance was of nervous expectation. "So." Sam sat back and glared at Esu. "Is this where you collect?" he asked.

"Samuel, Samuel. I 'collected' the second you took the chance given you." Esu spread his hand over the table top, and a steaming cup of tea appeared. He smiled and lifted the porcelain cup to his lips.

"Tell me what you want." Sam snapped. "This has to do with the doors—"

Esu interrupted. "Let me tell you a story, boy.

There was this one day, Eshu (or Nansi, or Legba, whatever you like) decided was a perfect day for a stroll a perfect day to wear his best and favorite hat—red on the one side, and on the other side, black. His stroll took him through a very prosperous village and (being the friendly sort) he smiled and tipped his hat, greeting folks along the way. Now, not long after he passed, the people there began to argue whether that fine hat was red, or black, seeing as those on one side of the road could only see the black and those on the other side could only see the red. They got so riled about that hat, they fought, and fought, brother against brother, father against son—on and on until no one was left to argue. When Eshu strolled though on his way back and saw what had happened, he had a pretty good laugh and said "Change comes in all kinds of ways, and bringing it on brings me joy."

"Is that why you did this to me? So I would change things?"

"Well, pretty Samuel, that's what everyone wants. Me, I want what you want--it's bound to be interesting. Look at you now."

"What do you get from changing things?"

"Already done told you. It's just…the fun of it all. Boy, I have no ill will toward you—either one of you. Whatever you decide is sure to be pleasing." He stood, his face wreathed in a brilliant smile. "Have a good life. Oh, and FYI, Samuel--the meatloaf--don't order it."

At that Dean lifted his head and stared Esu right in the eye, and lifted his lip. His teeth gleamed white, a brief moment, before he dropped his head again.

Esu murmured "Good boy," winking at Dean, and giving Sam a little wave, he disappeared.

Sam stared at the empty place in front of them watched the tea cup shimmer into nothingness. "Good boy," he whispered and Dean didn’t turn his head to him, but he laughed.

Their order came, and Dean worked his way through his hamburger and Sam's too, while Sam thought about what Esu had told him.

Another town, another road, another motel…Sam rocked back and forth, trying to keep warm in the raw wind whipping around the court of their latest motel. He checked his voicemail, pretty much like he'd check under a rock, waiting for something creepy to leap out.

He sighed, gnawed at his lip. So many messages, all of them along the same line: I'm coming for you.. It was just like his brother, really—hard to tell if his message was a threat or a promise. He thought about dumping them all—but losing Dean's voice felt—wrong.

Sam dropped the phone back in his pocket and kicked back and forth through drifts of leaves tumbling across the courtyard, watched them swirl up and dump into the cracked empty pool. He needed this quiet outside to do some thinking. He'd had a couple of moments where he'd almost called Raph, desperate to talk to someone who wasn't pushed against the wall by nightmares--wanting to ask his advice, but—how was he supposed to ask when he didn't know what the fuck to say. He stopped in front of the window of their room. The drapes were drawn, but he figured his Dean was asleep in there…fucking weird. He shoved his hand in his pocket and fingered the phone. Chuckled bitterly. He felt like he was contemplating being unfaithful….

When he couldn't put it off any longer, he gave in and called his brother.

The answer was immediate, and completely Dean--no fucking around with small talk.

"Sam? Tell me where you are—I'll come get you."

Oh god no—"No. No, I'm just calling to let you know we're okay. Don’t come after me, I'm serious. Leave us alone."

"Us! What the fuck is that—us? Are you *nuts*? Stupid question—*'course* you are! Listen, you tell me right now where you--"

Sam switched his phone off. Dean was definitely going to track him down—his brother was fucking good at what he did. Shit. Dean on a mission was a dangerous animal—he wouldn't give up until he found them. And unless Sam could come up with a way to cloud their trail, it wouldn't take his brother long....

Sam hefted his phone, thinking hard about throwing it into the black hole of the pool…instead he shoved it back in his pocket with a weary sigh. He opened the door to the room—it was dark inside and all he heard was Dean breathing, sleeping hard, muttering in his sleep.

Sam thought it should make him feel bad, but it didn't.

The crack between the drawn drapes let in the light of the dawning sun, shed a slim bar of light that edged its way across the blanket that covered them. Sam took a deep breath, tightened his fist in the worn material and began, "I'm…I'm thinking of getting in touch with Ruby--" Sam rolled his eyes when Dean growled, he expected as much. "--and before you go getting all irritable, I know what I'm doing." With any luck, he'd just go along and not argue and—one look at Dean's face let him know that wasn't going to happen. He winced when Dean started shouting--

"It's a demon. You can't *deal* with demons! Damn it, Sam, you of all people should know you can't *do* that! Look at me—look what they tried to do to you—"

"Shut up." Sam jerked his eyes away. He hated when Dean did that. Tried to remind Sam that he was…wasn't the original model. "Look—we need to be able to protect ourselves. I don't just mean from…hunters. I mean from every freakin' thing that thinks I'm their—their—messiah or something. I need to be able to control—and defeat--anything that comes our way."

"You're talking about messing with your powers! No! Nothing good's gonna come of that. I *know* it."

Dean glared at Sam across the width of the bed--yanked himself away when Sam tried to touch him, almost upsetting the lamp on the nightstand—

"Dude, hey!" Sam sat up, letting the blanket slither to the floor. He'd wakened Dean when he climbed into bed next to him, and with an incredible lack of foresight, decided since he was awake, why then, they should talk about the situation they were stuck in.

Maybe his brother was right, maybe he was kind of nuts.

Dean sat up too. He grabbed his pillow and punched it, hard enough to release clouds of ancient dust. "Look—okay--you don’t want to hear this and I don't fucking want to remind you but…I can *feel* what a bad thing that would be and that's fact and you know why. You *know* why."

"Dude--right now, I'm running around just waiting to fall into the grip of whatever thing that's gonna snatch me up and force me into doing—being—something horrible. What I want is the power to shut 'em down and keep 'em shut out—until I have that, I'm like an unexploded bomb! It's the only way to get out of this. And you know *that*!"

Dean leaped off the bed, and stalked around the room, there was a look in his eyes like he desperately wanted to rip something to shreds. "All right, I get that—but that demon's not the one to turn to. You gotta go to Bobby—" He stopped moving, laced his hands together and rubbed his face, cursed quietly. Sam could see how much this was taking out of Dean—yeah, well; it was kicking his ass, too. He got out of bed and followed Dean around the room, trying to make him stop—to look at him.

"Sam, your friend Bobby can help you with this. He knows things, knows people…that demon bitch isn’t the only one who's powerful enough to help you."

Sam stared open-mouthed in disbelief. "Damn it—you *know* we can't go to Bobby. You know what will happen, what he'll do. Shit, my…brother's after us and…we can't okay? Promise me you understand that." He dropped back down onto the musty bed, the scratchy blanket prickling under his palms. "Fuck. Tell me you get it."

"Sam…" He slid onto the bed too, straddled Sam's legs, cupped his face. "Okay. Yes. But don't—don't call it--please. Not yet."

He could see the fear, the pain, in Dean's eyes—it hurt. Sam shook his head. "I can't lose you, okay? I just…can't lose you. You're all I have." Dean dropped his eyes and shook his head, mouth a thin tight line, and Sam felt a stab of fear. "Hey. Hey, you…you feel it too, right? You love me?"

Dean laughed—such an ugly sound. "Don’t be an idiot. It's not like I couldn't. It's scribbled over every cell, carved on my bones and across my heart and every breath I take is full of how much I love you. I'd choke to death on it if you left me, Sam. I'd die. But I'd want it, if it meant saving you."

Sam swallowed. What could he say to that? A part of him knew that it was possible that this Dean really couldn't feel any other way…but it still made him feel safe, and he still felt loved. He refused to think anything else drove either of them.

They were stopped in a half-dead town, somewhere hours out from where they'd been. Sam had just gotten them into the car and taken off, no particular direction…he was pretty sure Dean was going off what he knew about Sam and not using any supernatural means of tracking him…at least he hoped he wasn't.

The Impala was parked in the cold shade of a couple of struggling trees, behind an abandoned factory. Dean was resting between Sam's legs; Sam was sitting on the hood. Dean was licking slowly at Sam's throat, long hot strokes that weren't exactly a prelude to anything, just…Dean soothing him. He ran his hands over the back of Dean's head, stroking, pushing his fingers through Dean's hair to scrape at his scalp. He liked the helpless little sounds of pleasure Dean made when he did that. He twisted his hand into the hair, long enough now for him to pull. Dean hummed and licked around his ear, biting at his earlobe, less soothing now, with more intent. Sam sighed…."I wanted to tell you, last night--I called him. He's going to keep after us, not gonna stop."

"Sam…" Dean stepped back, his eyes black, dim. "Already told you what I thought. You should go back. Safest way, man. They'll know what to do—"

"You know what? I almost—almost—miss those days when you didn't use to argue with me over every fucking thing..." Sam's grip tightened on the back of Dean's neck, pulled him back. Dean closed his eyes and Sam pressed his lips to his cheek. "No more talking like that. I'll fix it. This time, I know I will."

"I know you will, Sam," Dean murmured, and sank to his knees. He stroked Sam's thighs, asked for permission with his jade green gaze. Sam shivered, tilted his head back, closed his eyes. He ran hands down his stomach, unzipped his jeans, lifted his hips enough to push the jeans down and free his dick. Dean growled, wiped it over his mouth and cheeks, dragging gleaming trails of precome over his skin--mouthed the tip as Sam jerked and moaned and tried not to slide right off the hood.

Dean pulled Sam's knees as far apart as he could and pressed his face into his crotch, huffed…"Love the way you smell, Sam…love it…." He licked and bit at him, pushed him back until his hips were tilted up and exposing his hole and Dean was snuffling there, licking wet and messy around it, sucking at the tight whorl of muscle, loosening it, until he could stab his tongue inside, suck until Sam was almost crying, it felt so fucking good. He braced his heels against the bumper and begged, "Dean, fuck me, please—"

Dean shook his head no, opened his mouth and swallowed Sam, urged him to fuck his throat, hard, fast, and when Sam came he could feel Dean swallowing around him. Dean licked him clean, and kept on teasing him, until Sam groaned and shoved him away.

"'nuff—stop, I'm gonna fall—"

Dean rested his hands on Sam's quivering thighs, licking raw, swollen lips, smiling—radiating satisfaction. His eyes were thin jade slits. When he spoke, his voice was wrecked, raw. "Love the way you taste, Sam."

Sam slid off the hood and yanked his pants up with one hand and grabbed Dean by the collar with the other, shoved him into the back seat. Dean stared up at him, one corner of his mouth lifted, heat flaring in his eyes. "Umm, I like it when you get like this."

"Yeah?" Sam yanked Dean's boots off, ripped down his jeans, and grinned down at him. Dean was naked from the waist down. "This is a good look on you." Sam bent over him with a wicked smile and mouthed his dick, teasing, waiting for Dean to beg him. "You like this, hunh?"

"Yeah, please, I like it a lot. Please!" He groaned when Sam licked him into his mouth. "Oh, fuck yeah, I like it."

"Too bad—I've got other plans," Sam smirked, reached into Dean's jacket. From the inside pocket, he fished out a condom and a squeeze packet of lube—after first grabbing and tossing away a squeeze packet of ketchup…"Dude."

"What? They never give you enough ketchup."

Sam rolled his eyes, bit the lube open and squeezed its contents on his fingers, and pushed it inside Dean, moving his fingers inside him enough to soften the tight ring, until Dean was pushing back and cursing, "Come on, come on, don't need that—"

"Well, I do--shh—" Sam pushed inside, and Dean took over—hooked Sam with his legs and pulled him in, set up a fast hard pace. His shoulders squeaked across the vinyl, his legs tight around Sam's waist. The position was awkward, Sam had one leg on the seat and one on the floor, but it gave him the leverage he needed—besides, he thought, it wouldn't last long. Already, Sam could feel orgasm building like a wave. It was being inside of Dean, it drove him crazy—Sam loved fucking him, almost as much as getting fucked himself. He loved it when Dean fell apart, he loved feeling Dean's dick flex, throb in his hand, the way his ass tightened on him, the way he threw his head back and howled when he came….

They sat together in the back seat, an old blanket thrown over them, Dean between Sam's legs and wrapped up in his arms. "Don't worry," Sam said, "I'm going to fix this. All I want is for you to believe me, okay?"

Dean smiled and kissed Sam's jaw. "Of course I believe in you—you're my brother."

"Sam! Sam, damn it—stop running from me! Sam, talk to me, come on kid, just—answer me. I'm not gonna stop calling, you hear me?"

Sam closed his eyes and pressed the phone against his forehead. What the fuck was wrong with him? He spent the days riding to nowhere with his Dean, just driving and driving and then spending every moment they weren't driving wrapped around each other like pretzels… nights, he listened to his brother shout at him and curse at him and beg him to come back.

"Shit!" Sam bellowed, kicked rocks in a spray across the graveled driveway of the latest dump they'd pulled into. It sat half in the woods—an old motel court made up of creepy faux English cottages glued together and arranged in a horseshoe around a pool, or what had once been a pool. It was architectural vomit. They were staying in the farthest set of newer cottages, newer being relative. At least the thick woods behind them masked the sound of the highway behind them.

Sam tired of trying to kick the driveway to death, and flung himself onto the Impala's trunk. He rubbed the phone against his jaw, and took in a breath that was more of a sob. It wasn't fair that Dean wouldn't let him fix this, wouldn't let him call Ruby. It was the best answer. Fuck, he deserved an answer that would let him keep both of them. Why not? He was *owed* it. Everything else was taken from him.

His throat closed, and his chest ached so badly he couldn't breathe—he was having a heart attack. Cold sweat broke out over his skin as Sam slid to the ground, dropped his head between his knees and struggled for breath. His heart raced, and the pain raced down his arms and into his jaw and his vision blurred, he couldn't *breathe* …"oh god, oh god," he croaked, knowing he wasn't dying but not completely sure. His rational mind explained the mechanics of a panic attack to himself, but the reptile brain refused to cooperate and kept screaming he was dying, and he was terrified of Dean finding his body….

"Okay, okay, stop; stop now, because if Dean sees, he'll blame himself…" Sam pressed his hands over his face, managed to convince himself that he actually was breathing, and that his heart was still beating and that…he needed to pull himself together for Dean, and for his brother, too.

The problem was he couldn't help but love them both, and neither one of them was guaranteed not to kill him….

"All right," Sam lied. "Come morning, I'll call him, and let him know we're going to Bobby's, okay? I won't try and contact Ruby, and…we'll see. I mean, I know Bobby will help." Sam smiled and hoped it looked more real than it felt.

"That's all I'm asking," Dean murmured, and flicked Sam's shoulder with his fingers. Sam snorted and tried to capture them, and when Dean smiled up at him, shoved down a hot spike of guilt. He told himself, there were times you *had* to lie to protect the people you loved. And after, when Dean realized he'd done the right thing for the both of them, he'd understand, he'd forget....

Dean turned to his side, unsticking himself from Sam like they were coated with glue. The room was too stuffy to be comfortable; the heater was working over-time, pumping out hot air like it sat over a volcano. The hot air intensified the slight smell of incontinent cat he'd noticed when he first came in. They were spread over the room's single bed, both of them wearing nothing but damp boxers and sweat. The ancient television propped up on the low dresser spat static and snow and the heater moaned and croaked out more hot air, and it just got hotter and hotter….

Dean suddenly kicked the covers to the floor, cursing and flailing. "Mother-fuck!—Why am I sweating my balls off when it's colder than shit outside? This is a heck of a frickin' great place you picked," he complained. "Plus it smells like some Cat Lady's living room."

"Hey, when I get Radisson money, we'll stay in a Radisson room. Until then, it's broken heaters and cat piss. And don’t go losing your balls," Sam smirked, "I'd planned on using them later."

"Dude…what have we said about you showing me a lousy time and then expecting me to put out? I'm like some big slutbar for you?"

"Well…yeah," Sam grinned and turned to his side, letting his finger trace the path of a determined bead of sweat making it's way to Dean's navel. "Aren't you?"

Dean scowled, dark and thunderous, before suddenly grinning--huge, wide and happy, a grin that creased his eyes and showed all his teeth. Laughed, and said, "Yeah." He slung a leg over Sam's and pulled him close. They kissed, deep, slow, the promise of sex in each lingering kiss. Dean moved his hips against his, tried to pull Sam over him, but Sam didn't want that, not this night.

"I want you to fuck me," Sam whispered into Dean's shoulder…Dean groaned, lifted himself away from Sam, easily breaking his grip.

"Aw, Sam, come on—"

"Please. I just…I need you to. Please? I really need it that way."

Dean stared into Sam's eyes, and finally he nodded. "Sure. Anything you want, Sammy."

Sam smiled as Dean pulled him close and kissed him right through his smile. "Baby…my baby boy," Dean breathed into his mouth…surprise and a rush of heat swept through Sam. He liked it, he liked Dean calling him baby. Probably shouldn't let him know that…

Ah, what the fuck."Say it again…" He let Dean push him back against the bed, and cover him in the slow, hot kisses Dean trailed down his neck, across his shoulders…

"You like me calling you baby?" Dean touched his cheek. "Baby, 'cause you're mine. All mine…."

Dean kissed down the center of his chest, soft swirls of his tongue chasing the kisses downwards…"Don’t ever forget." Dean's head against his stomach felt heavy, in a good way, like being held in place, being reminded that this was real, and they were right there, together….

He drew the fingers he'd curled around the back of Dean's head through his damp hair, scratching, twisting the strands in them, pulling a little like Dean liked. Dean's strong, clever fingers skated under him, following the arch of his back, teased his cleft and then worked inside him. They felt so big and hot, felt so good. Tight muscle fluttered and opened, greedy for more. He groaned, fucked himself on Dean's fingers, moving in concert with the tiny moans Dean panted into his skin, certain that Dean didn't even know he made them….

Sam slid his hand to the back of Dean's neck and squeezed. Dean shivered, bent until his lips grazed the tip of Sam's dick, swirled his tongue through the leaking slit, sucked little kisses there until his lips parted enough for Sam to fuck his way in. He was swimming on the edge of orgasm--torn between the twin sensations of Dean's mouth, and Dean's fingers. His hips stuttered, trying to force them in deeper, faster. Dean twisted his fingers and his knuckles pushed in, opening Sam wider—moved his fingers and Sam shook as electric heat cascaded through him.

"Now, I think I'm going to come now," he moaned and Dean let his dick slip out of his mouth, pulled his fingers free. Sam grumbled in disappointment and Dean hushed him with a kiss, searched out the lube on the nightstand. Seconds later, Dean was kneeling on the bed, slicking himself with tense concentration. He glanced up, caught Sam's eyes, and smirked. Shot Sam a sly, wicked grin, and drawled, "I'm going to fuck you now, I'm gonna do it slow and hot, and you're going to lose your mind and love it."

Sam's dick jerked, and dragged a hot trail of precome across his belly; he barely managed not to come the second Dean's hands closed around his ankles, slid up his calves. "Aw--awful sure of yourself…" he stuttered, his voice sliding rough and out of control—he'd been trying for cocky, but lost it completely when Dean hands eased his legs apart, his thumbs slid over his balls and pushed into him, holding Sam open for his dick—slow, teasing, bumping in and out until Sam cried out, "Do it, do what you said—now!"

"Yeah, Sam, yes--" Dean's head dropped, muscle rippled along his arms, his sides—seriously fucking into Sam, hard enough to move him up the bed. Long, steady strokes had him gasping, crying out—Sam grabbed his dick and his hand flew up and down his shaft, his whole body straining towards orgasm, closer, closer…Dean leaned down, pushed his face into Sam's neck, sucked sweat and salt from his skin. "Sam, Sam...the way you smell…taste…I need you, need to touch you, fuck you…make you come…."

Sam groaned. Dean felt hotter, bigger inside him. Sam grabbed Dean's arms, felt how they trembled with the strain of holding himself back. Teeth bared, eyes were wide and glowing—Dean looked wild, feral, fucked into Sam, never taking his eyes from him—he was moaning, "Yeah, there you go, feel it? Feel me—" A growl rolled up out of his chest, deep, dark--he cursed. "I can't—can't—"

"Come, then, come with me—" felt like his blood was boiling under his too-tight skin, like he might rip open and let out everything he was—he came and it was mind-blowing--and hurt, fuck, it hurt--but in an amazing, wonderful, incredible way.

"Right now, Sam, now." Dean moaned, loud, long into his ear. "Right now—" The feel of Dean's dick throbbing, the hot wash of his come inside him blew electric shocks through him, again, again, and he felt like he was coming forever.

Drifting, wrapped up in velvet dark, thick heat pushing at every inch of him, skin slick with sweat and come…he sighed, content. His ass ached, and his throat was raw like he'd been screaming for hours--he loved it, all of it. Dean's tongue tickling his neck slowly made him come back to himself…long soothing licks, wet and soft and smooth against his throat, settled Sam, until he open his eyes again.

"Fuu-ck. So…so…."

"Mmm." Dean nodded. "It was."

Sam curled around him. "We should wash up, right? We fall asleep and it'll be all funky and stuff in th'mornin'…should get up'n get a washcloth…" he was drifting again even as he spoke. He barely heard Dean chuckle, tell him to sleep, and he'd take care of everything.

"Sleep, Sammy. I love you. I'm going to take care of you."

Sam wanted to tell him that he knew he would, but sleep took him first.

Dean lay stretched out next to Sam, had been for a few hours, just watching his chest move to deep, solid breaths, smiling at the twitches, the fleeting frowns and smiles that chased across Sam's sleep soft features. Dean felt love—pure, fierce and burning. There was nothing he wouldn't do for Sam—nothing. And if Sam was in need of him to take control of the situation, than that's what he'd do. He leaned closer, and kissed Sam's mouth, gently, barely brushing his lips, so soft….

He traced the arch of his neck, the swell of his shoulder, traced down to his navel, and slipped his finger in, grinned when Sam snickered and huffed, his eyes racing back and forth under closed lids. He smiled and Dean felt warmth spread through his chest. Sam was having a pleasant dream. Good.

Dean swung off the bed, and padded across the room. He pulled on a tee-shirt, slipped into his jeans, his boots, and shrugged the leather jacket Sam loved so much on. He unzipped the duffle, searching for a particular gun--a pretty, pearl handled, Colt semi-automatic. He came up with it and made a small sound of triumph. Got it! He pushed it into the back of his jeans. He hummed quietly as he rinsed out the room's toy coffee maker, and set it brewing. He tipped quietly to the bed. "Sleep good," he said, and kissed Sam's forehead. "Made coffee," he whispered, knowing Sam was out hard, and not even the smell of coffee would wake him up…not for a while.

He eased out the door, leaning on it for a moment. The sun was barely up, just a milky glow at the horizon. Sniffing the air brought the faint, far-away hint of snow. Clouds hung over the mountains in the distance, rising from them like smoke. Up there, it'd be snowing, and he wished they'd had the time to head up into them. Snow…he'd like to see that. He had dim memories of snow, hiding everything under a thick blanket of crisp white. Seemed like that would be a beautiful thing to see….

He closed his eyes and let memories come… laughed softly to himself at the first one that floated up, Sam in a pink puffy jacket and a huge scowl, covered with snowball guts. Poor Sammy…he'd really suffered with that cast-off coat, until Dad had managed to get him a manly navy blue.

Hey, Princess, now all you need is a crown to go with your pretty pink coat.

Screw you, Dean!

Ooo, Language! I'm going to tell Dad!

Dad and Sam, sweeping snow off the Impala and Dad laughing at something Sam said...Sam on his back, sweeping angels into the snow…the feel of cold biting at his cheeks. A sensation he'd never had, but he knew how it'd feel, knew all about bare fingers aching from packing snow into a hard ball….

He came back to himself with a little start, remembered what he'd come outside for. He walked across the parking lot, stopping to pat the metal flank of the black beast that was supposed to mean something to him. He sighed— it didn't--it was just a collection of stale smells overlaid with the stink of gasoline, but Sam loved it and expected him to, and Sam's scent ran all through it, so in some way it did mean something. Mostly, it just made him sad.

He moved into the trees behind the motel, up a slight hill. He trotted along a cut through, and across a small road, into a proper woods—the tree trunks thick and furred with moss, interlacing branches over head blocking out the rising sun's rays. It smelled good—full of green things, the rich smell of leaf mold and soil—he stretched, spread his arms wide to the unseen sky. Ran deeper into the woods, until he couldn't hear the road sounds any more, or smell anything on the cool wet air but the land around him. It was nothing like the fire and ash and the burning he knew he came out of, that he sometimes dreamt of, but it felt…good. Right. Almost as right as standing near Sam.

He pushed through leaves and underbrush, leaped over a fallen log, and flushed a rabbit—instinct sent heat flushing through him, sent him flying after it, and in seconds he was on it. He scooped it up in mid-leap, and swung it by its head—the snap of vertebrae separating ignited a hot burst of pleasure under his ribs. He ran on a bit until he found a spot protected by thickly overgrown shrubs. He crawled in under them and folded his legs up, still smiling. The dead animal was spread over his lap, its eyes wide and glassy, a thin red ribbon of blood snaking from its nose. If he poked his fingers through the neck, he could peel the skin off like a glove….

He looked down at the scrap of cooling meat in his lap, a little surprised to see this thing. He really didn't remember grabbing it, killing it….

He sighed, and let it drop with a sad shake of his head. What would Sam think? He licked his fingers clean and shimmied out from under the bush. He thought about Sam, how much Sam wanted from him, how much he wanted to be what Sam wanted.

But that was impossible.

Every day he spent with him, every minute Sam was close to him, was poisonous. He was breaking Sam, bit by bit, just by being with him, and as long as he was, Sam wouldn't go back to where he belonged. And that was bad.

He moved a little deeper into the woods, where the sun broke through thick branches, spotting the forest floor with gold. He thought it was sad, that now when he'd come to love this place so much—the quiet, the cool air—now he was going to have to leave it.

He took off the jacket, and sat back against a sturdy tree…oak another Dean memory provided, and eased the pretty gun out of his waist band. He laughed quietly when a memory surfaced—Dean getting the gun as a gift. It was his…it was not his. Now, the gun would bring another gift—it would set Sam right again. Of course, he knew Sam would grieve, and that was a horrible weight, but eventually, the shadow would lift and Sam would be where he was supposed to be—next to his brother. His eyes burned with the pain of wanting to cry, when no tears were possible. He lifted the gun and took a second. He had nothing to turn to, no soul to ask protection for. The best he could hope for was oblivion and he hoped for it with all his might—and then, he wished with everything he had, with every stolen moment of this life, that Sam be well, be safe. Be loved.

The shot was clean and quick, because Dean was good at what he did.

"What?" Sam jerked upright. For a second, he was completely lost—this was not his apartment, not New York…

"Dude…did you…hey…." He was alone in a motel at the end of the world, and suddenly his brain gave a name to the sound that had yanked him out of sleep. He fell out of bed and fumbled around on the floor, grabbing clothes, and dressing quickly as he could. His hands shook the whole time—a freezing well of fear was opening inside him.

He was standing in the courtyard before he even realized he'd left the room—blinking his eyes against the rising sun. The wind whipped around the courtyard, almost as cold as the ice rising in him.

There was no one outside, or in the car, no one in the office, he wasn't behind the motel, he wasn't on the road….

The change in light drew Sam's eyes to the woods. The ice inside him grew, rippled up his spine. The woods drew him—he knew it came from there—the noise that had pulled him out of sleep.

Sam found the jacket, folded neatly, with a rock weighing it down. The breath caught in his throat, the ice crackled and snapped in his veins…he tore through the woods, a name he hadn't spoken aloud for days echoing around him.

It didn't take long for Sam to find him…propped against a tree, the colt in his lap. There was a lot of blood, a lot of mess, and he'd probably died quickly. Sam was shivering, empty and cold and brittle.

The body weighed nothing—his hands slipped, wet and gritty, when he picked it up. Dozens of different scenes he and his crew had worked flashed through his mind. He knew just what to do for blood, organic matter contaminating a site, for an outdoor site…Sam blinked, unsure of where he was, and then he felt the wet heat dripping through his fingers, running down his chest….

He carried the body back to the room, nearly blind from tears and not caring if anyone saw but of course, the god of fools was looking out for him.

Sam wrapped him up carefully, first in a sheet, then in a blanket ripped off the bed. He laid him out in the back of the Impala, and drove away…let the motel curse George Lutz for running out on his bill.

They were high up in the mountains before Sam could bring himself to stop driving. In the mountains was where he burned him.

The flames flared upwards, snapping at the sky. Snowflakes swirled around the fire, hissing as they dropped into the flames. The smell of burning wood snarled together with the stink of gasoline and roasting flesh, thick and greasy…like any other body they'd ever burned. Heat from the flames reached out, touched him—and the ice filling him up inside, split and split until it was gone and it wasn't fair, it wasn't fair to be left alone with this…

Sam hated him.

More than anything, more than any pain he'd ever felt, Sam hated him for leaving him all alone. Sam screamed it over and over in the thin cold air, until finally he was just screaming, and why the fuck not, he was alone. Sam cursed him, and demanded to know what he was supposed to do now, how he was supposed to live without him…why he should even bother trying to.

He couldn't do it again.

He came down off the mountain and drove, straight on to nothing, just driving and driving. He lived in the car, he didn't eat, slept when he couldn't hold out anymore and more than once thought about just closing his eyes and letting the car drift as he drove, and finally he ended up at a rest stop on the side of the road, cored out and kneeling next to the car and just breathing because he couldn't do anything else…that was when he finally understood what he was supposed to do…

He called.

Falling snow made a sloppy mess of the parking lot, did nothing to make the two-story motel look anything less like a last stop on the way to hell.

He dragged himself up a flight of iron stairs, made his way along a narrow walkway, and stood in front of a sun-faded metal door. Room 27. He stared at the black stick-on lettering until they shivered, until glowing dots danced in front of his eyes. He lifted his hand and before he could change his mind, hammered on the door.

It opened so fast, he nearly fell forward. Strong arms gripped him, wrapped him up and pulled him close. "Fucking finally. Sammy."

Dean—Dean—all he could do was cry and cry, and Dean held him and told him, "It's going to be okay now, don't worry, I'll fix it, I always fix it, right? I'll make it okay, promise—I'll help you."

Epilogue

He has this dream sometimes, that he's walking above a field with no end, on hills sky high that ring this field--a battle rages perpetually across it. Sometimes in the dream, he hears his name being screamed, over and over. Difficult to tell if the voices are cheering, cursing, or begging.

He's never alone in this dream. There's this…thing on a chain he holds. He can feel the links twist and burn in his palm as it tries to get out on the field….

The battlefield is burning, like images of hell he used to see in movies when he was a kid. Constantly burning, and flames sweep the low, dark sky, vomiting out black smoke and turning everything shades of black and gray. In all that darkness, only the flames have color, and he's kind of glad about that.

The thing on the chain is howling and whining and pawing at the muddy earth. The churned earth fills the air with the stink of copper, wet copper pennies. The chain rips through his palm again, and he hisses, warm wet fill the creases of his skin. Immediately the thing drops back, slack on the chain brings relief almost as sharp as pain. It snakes its neck around, rolls jade eyes in the bony shell of its face until it's looking into his. It licks Sam's palms clean, and makes a noise meant to be a whine.

"It's okay. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me." He looks up; a black wave fills the sky, rank after rank of wide black wings shedding feathers like rain. The sound…he close his eyes. He'd never imagined the sound, oddly enough. The fire, the blood, corpses like bricks piled up in a wall…he'd seen all of that and nothing makes him falter, but…the sound makes his heart bleed. "I wish…."

The air shimmers and the battle falters and the thing on the chain turns and faces him, trots back to him and rears up on its hind legs, licks his face. He can't help but laugh, wrap his fist in its collar to hold it back. "Stop!"

The battle rages on. It leaves black paw prints from the thick mud under its feet, all over his white, white shirt. The chain chimes as it slithers to the ground.

Now? the long white thing asks.

Go he says, but come back soon. I miss you when you're not here.

It shivers and stretches. Stands and with a low laugh, unlocks its collar, lays it on his palm. Green eyes shine warm, and it gathers his face in its palms. Yours forever.

It turns and runs off to the field, so happy to be free again.

He sits on the hill and watches the battle rage and watches his Dean be free. He knows, without a doubt, he'll return.

There's a black sun flaring in the sky, on the other side of the field is a hill like this one, but he doesn't look there. He doesn't listen. His eyes pick out his Dean and watch him run, watches the legions of black shapes lunge up from the ground as he passes, and soar above him, shouting--

"Ah—" Sam wakes up on sweat dampened sheets in a hard narrow bed, panting like he's run a race. Fear and sorrow tumble through him until he's sure he's not--there, in that place. He squints through the darkness and recognizes where he is—Bobby's spare room. The one he and Dean spent time in, in summers long gone by. Even some of the old posters he'd let them tack up on the wall were still there, cars and girls—Dean's stuff.

He lies back down again. There's not much point in changing the sheets, and in a bit, he'll probably get up and make coffee, drink a cup with Bobby and watch the sun come up. It's warm enough now for it to be comfortable squatting out on the porch….

Dean's steadily snoring, sleeping peacefully in the bed nearest the door, of course. Even here.

Sam sits up, and watches Dean, filling himself up on it, staring all he wants because Dean's asleep, and won’t ask him what the hell is wrong, does he have a zit? Is Sam going blind? Does he realize how fucking creepy the staring is?

Sam always laughs, and Dean always laughs, and that's always the end of it, except sometimes when Dean looks at him, tight-faced and worried, when he thinks Sam doesn't see.

Dean turns on his bed and mutters in his sleep, and for a moment Sam feel like his chest is cracking open and everything is pouring out, blood and guts and his soul…and then life catches up with him and he lays back, and watches Dean breathe.

Tomorrow is Sam's birthday.