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"No, nothing," Dean says, trying to keep from snapping at Bobby. He pulls the phone away and takes a deep breath, willing himself to calm down before continuing. "I'm telling you, he hasn't so much as moved for three hours."

"Well, is he hurt?" Bobby asks.

"Not as far as I can tell," Dean answers, but he shoots a look back over to the bed he's laid his brother out on.

Sam's chest expands and goes back down, a slow, ridiculously steady rhythm compared to the way Dean's pulse is beating. He's checked Sam's body over six times, not found so much as a mark where the spell hit, but he saw it land right on Sam's chest, and his brother had dropped the moment it happened, like a sack of rocks.

It would be bad enough under any circumstances, but now Dean can't look at Sam like this and stop himself from remembering nine months ago in Cold Oak. If he couldn't see Sam breathing…

"God, Bobby, he looks dead," Dean nearly whispers, and he hadn't even meant to say it. Not out loud. Can't acknowledge something like that happening again. He doesn't have another soul to sell. "You gotta help me wake him up."

"Alright," Bobby says, sounding tired on the other end of the line. Dean's tired, too. Hell, he almost envies Sam what looks like a damn peaceful sleep. "Just calm down. Tell me again exactly how it happened. Do you remember what the spell sounded like?"

He shakes his head, even though Bobby won't see it. "The warlock didn't say anything. Not for any of the spells. He had a staff and it shot out different colors depending on what he was trying to do."

Dean could swear he hears Bobby sitting up at attention. "You didn't mention the colors changed," he says. "What color was the one that hit Sam? Didn't happen to be a light purple, did it?"

"Yeah," Dean replies. "Light purple. That mean something to you?"

Bobby fucking laughs across the line, and it makes Dean simultaneously tense in annoyance and relax. Bobby wouldn't be laughing if it was serious.

"I know the spell," he says. "Met a witch once who used it to get some peace and quiet after she gave birth to triplets."

Dean throws one hand out, encouraging Bobby to get on with it, then realizes how pointless that is. There's no one to see except his knocked out little brother. "So he's just asleep? I don't need to dream root into his head and figure out if he's being tortured?"

"Far as I could tell from my research, it's a damn generous spell. Helps people get in some good rest. Sam should be having a nice dream."

"But how do I wake him up?"

"You don't," Bobby replies. "There's pretty much no way to break it, nothing worth the effort, at least."

"I'm supposed to just leave Sam like this?" Dean asks, and this time he lets the anger in his voice rise to the surface.

"It'll wear off in a few hours, Dean," Bobby assures him. "Seven to be exact. You said it's been a few already?"

"Maybe three and a half by now."

"Then all you need to do is sit tight for a little while. Maybe get some rest yourself. Your brother will be up in no time and probably feeling better than he has since—" Bobby cuts himself off, but it's no use. Dean hears all the silent accusations. It's true, too, Sam's been driving himself crazy the last few months, trying to find a way out of Dean's deal. He hasn't gotten a full night's sleep since last year. "Anyway, he'll be fine."

"You're positive?" Dean asks.

"Going off everything you've told me about the hunt and Sam's condition? I'm 99% sure. Start worrying if he hasn't awaken in four hours or so."

"Okay." Dean nods at the phone and tries to reassure himself. Bobby's no fuck-up. "Okay, thanks Bobby."

"Don't mention it," Bobby grumbles. "Now, if you don't mind. It's nearly two in the morning. Sam's not the only one who needs his beauty rest."

With that, the line goes dead, and almost immediately, the quiet of the room starts to overwhelm Dean. He tosses his phone at the duffel he'd dropped by the door in his rush not to leave Sam unattended and walks across the room, sitting on the bed opposite his brother.

Sam really does look calm, his head turned on the pillow Dean gingerly placed it on. He's got a tiny curl in his lip, a soft smile aimed at Dean.

Dean turns his face away, because a sweet little smile like that, that's more than he can take right now.

With three and a half hours to go, he decides to stay busy. There's no way he's sleeping in the next four hours, not when Bobby had only been 99% sure Sam would be alright. Worrying over him isn't gonna do either of them any good, and staring at him can only go one of two ways: Dean will get lost in his worst memories or in his worst desires.

He cleans all the weapons in his bag, huffing laughs at muted reruns of Seinfeld, as if waking Sam up would be as easy as watching TV too loud. Dean tries his damnedest to stay focused on the task at hand, not glance over every now and then and forget himself, hypnotized by the way the light from the television dances over Sam's face.

His brother is still smiling at him. It only takes two hours to clean and sort everything, take the guns apart, reassemble them. Dean tries to draw it out, but Dad trained him too well. He can practically hear John's stopwatch ticking every time he starts, and he moves so much faster than he wants to.

At a quarter after four, Dean stands, turns the television off, and swallows down a few fingers of whiskey. The glass makes the loudest sound he's heard since he hung up the phone when Dean slams it on the motel's particle board table next to a freshly sharpened machete.

His finger trails along the bed Sam is lying on as he makes his way back to his own, sits down again facing his brother.

He can't get enough. That smile. Fuck, Dean doesn't remember the last time Sam looked that happy. Hates the thought that maybe it's not for him at all, that Sam is with someone else in whatever sweet little dream he's been sucked into.

There's no harm in touching it. Sam's out cold, nothing's waking him up. Dean wouldn't do anything Sam would be upset with if he were awake. It's his own rules that hold him back, keep him from showing his brother physical affection, but if Sam's asleep, it's okay. There's nothing to worry about when Sam can't see, can't figure him out.

Dean moves, sitting on the edge of Sam's bed, body turned toward his brother. He brushes a hair out of Sam's face, then traces his way down, across Sam's cheek. His fingers read out the happiness shaping Sam's lips as if Dean was a blind man and every secret of the universe was spelled out here in braille.

Sam doesn't stir. Of course he doesn't. He isn't going to, not for another two hours at least, no matter what Dean does.

No matter what.

Dean swallows hard, tries to pry his hand away. What he's thinking—the floor should just open now, swallow him and take him to Hell early. Fuck, it's where he belongs. It's where he should have been years ago, the first time he looked at his brother and thought…

Sam's not waking up. He's not waking up no matter what. Dean's going to Hell in three months regardless. Nothing he can do now to save himself. Nothing he can do to be more damned.

Dean could do anything. Sam isn't going to know. It doesn't hurt him if he doesn't know.

All those layers Sam's wearing, and the motel room is starting to feel a little too hot. Dean should have thought to dress Sam down a little. He'll just make Sam more comfortable, and that's all. Sure, his brother can't feel it now, but no one wants to wake up soaked in sweat, dressed in the same filthy clothes from yesterday's hunt.

Dean hefts his brother up off the pillow. It's easy to take off the plaid overshirt Sam's got on, but the white tee underneath proves more difficult. It really is dirty, sticky with sweat, a little tight from too many washes, and Sam's arms are dead weight.

No, not dead. Just sleeping.

Sam's shoes come off next, followed by socks, which Dean tosses across the room without paying much attention to where they land. He can't take his eye off his brother, off all that bare skin he's freed up.

It's okay to look. Looking won't hurt Sam.

The belt buckle takes some concentration. He struggles for half a minute, trying not to jostle Sam before he remembers that won't wake him anymore than the laughing did. Once he's unhooked it, he tugs, letting Sam shake as he wiggles the buckle free.

Sam's jeans are off without too much hassle, pulled down from the feet once they’re pushed past his ass, and it's only the boxers now. Dean could clean Sam off just fine without taking off his boxers. There's really no excuse for it.

He won't wake up. Not from the relief of cool air on his overheated skin. Not from anything Dean does.

Sam is naked before long, head tilted to the side, the same smile as before, but somehow it seems darker now. Dirtier. Welcoming.

Dean puts a hand over his cock, feeling the bulge in his jeans as they begin to tighten. He's just going to clean Sam off, then he can dress Sam in something better for sleeping and spend the rest of the time until his brother wakes holed up in the bathroom jerking off for all it matters.

There are scratchy towels in the bathroom, and Dean only ruined one of them cleaning the blood off himself after the hunt. The warlock hadn't been the 'go-for-the-vein' type, which probably explains why he hit Sam with a spell that would put him away as a threat without hurting him. Too bad he hadn’t been counting on Dean, who has never been much good at waiting to ask questions before putting a bullet in anything that threatened his brother. Sam would have given him shit about it, probably, if Sam hadn't been an unconscious lump on the floor.

He wets one of the spare towels and carries it back out to the room, where Sam is still out cold and naked and more than Dean can really bear to look at. But he doesn't look away, either, not for a second.

With no one there, no danger that Sam will see the cracks in the wall Dean puts up, he lets himself be reverent. His touch is soft to counteract the rough fabric he's using to wipe his brother down, gentler even than when he's stitching Sam up after a hunt gone wrong. There's no harm in it. Sam won't know.

Dean keeps the lights on. He can see every scar on his brother's skin, lets himself trace the indents, lazy and spellbound and all too aware that this is his one chance. He pulls Sam up and wipes his back, and that's the only time he closes his eyes. There's a scar there, right at the base of Sam's spine, and Dean swears he can feel the blade lodged in himself every time he sees it.

He cleans every part of Sam until there's nothing left except his soft cock, resting against one thick thigh, and Dean's hand fucking trembles as he touches it. Sam won't feel this; it's okay. Anyway, Dean is just cleaning him off, like he used to do when Sam was little. This is just another body part and it shouldn't be any different.

Nothing is different except for the way Dean's blood is pounding in his ears. His dick is rock hard, and there's no chance of willing it away. Dean reaches down and undoes his fly, shoves his jeans and kicks them off, just so he can have a little breathing room. He won't do anything. He won't. Just can't focus with his pants cutting off his circulation, and anyway, it's not like Sam will know.

He holds his brother's dick gently, trying to get the work over as quickly as he can, and it's like the reverse of the weapons. Instead of finishing too fast, this takes too long, every fraction of a second seeming to stretch on forever, and Dean is half-convinced Sam will wake any moment, ask just what the hell Dean is doing.

Sam won't though, will he? He's not waking up.

With his other hand, Dean reaches out, presses his palm against Sam's impossibly wide chest, feels his brother's heart beating. Sam is alive. Unfathomably beautiful and safe for just a few hours. He's not going after anything that might hurt him or glaring at Dean for a decision he never could have made differently. Just for a few hours, he's alive and he's at peace and he's smiling at Dean.

Dean isn't thinking when he leans down, his lips brushing the corner of Sam's. Just where that little curl tugs them up. His heart is hammering so hard it feels almost painful, like it could break out of his chest any moment. But Sam's is steady. No change at all. He could do anything to Sam. Anything.

It isn't hurting his brother if Sam will never know.

Dean slips the towel lower, behind Sam's cock, rolls his balls between the wet fabric. Sam's dick starts to stir, but that's the only change. He keeps right on moving, exploring his brother, reaching far enough to rove over his ass, slipping between the crack.

He stops when he feels Sam's hole under his fingers through the towel, presses lightly and wonders if Sam is so relaxed it would be easy to intrude further. Work him open, fuck his brother on his fingers. Or more, even. He could do more.

For—he checks the clock—one and a half more hours, he can do whatever he goddamn wants. Sam is all his to use. It's not hurting anyone. Sam won't ever know. Just once, Dean can get everything he's going to Hell for. Just one time, and Sammy never even has to know. It's a gift that maybe most people wouldn't even have to think about before passing up, but Dean is not most people, and Sam is Sam.

Tossing the towel aside, Dean reaches for the nightstand, finds the motel lotion still wrapped up with the shampoo and conditioner, and tears through the plastic to get to it, savage in his need to do this before he changes his mind. There isn't enough time to grapple with his conscience. In less than two hours, Sam will be awake, and his one shot will be gone.

He spreads the lotion over two fingers and dips them into his brother finding that, yes, he is relaxed enough to open to it. It's all-too-easy to press them both in knuckle deep, and Dean starts to work his brother loose, thrilling in the fact that Sam is only getting harder, starting to make quiet sounds of pleasure when Dean crooks his fingers right.

Fuck knows who Sam is dreaming about. Dean doesn't like to think about it, doesn't like to feel violent toward people who get his brother the way Dean never was supposed to. This is his one chance, and Sam can imagine it's whoever he pleases in his knocked out little mind. As long as Dean gets Sam.

It's not too long before he pulls out. Considers a third finger, then dismisses it. Sam is plenty open, he won't feel anything when he wakes, not if Dean is careful. He should use a condom, he knows, that'll make it less messy, easier to cover up the evidence. But god, Dean wants in his brother so bad. He'll make the extra effort.

He uses the rest of what's in the lotion bottle to slick up his dick, make sure it's as easy on Sam as possible. Then he takes hold of his brother's legs, splaying them apart, as wide and wanton as ever he imagined. Sure, maybe Sam is a little more animated when he fantasizes about this, but Dean's got him smiling.

When he finds Sam's hole with the head of his cock, Dean shoves in immediately, doesn't waste his time easing in. He goes as far as he can with the first push, no take backs, no changing his mind. Sam swallows him like he's been starving for this his whole life. Dean has.

"Like that, don't you?" Dean asks, leaning in so his lips brush the shell of Sam's ear. "Me too, Sammy. You feel so good."

He pulls back enough to kiss his brother, passionate despite the slack mouth under his, and then out almost all the way, slamming in again. Sam's breath leaves him with a soft 'oof,' the bed hits the wall with a thump, but his brother stays still for him. There's no waking him.

"Take it so good," Dean mutters as he thrusts harder. "God, Sam, I always knew you'd be so perfect for this. So good for me."

He's like a man possessed, the way he starts to move then. Dean likes to think he's a pretty gracious guy in bed, always makes sure his partner is having as good a time as he is, but for once in his life, he's nothing but selfish. There's no point in pretending this is for Sam. Even if his brother wanted it, he wouldn't remember—hell, that's the whole reason it's happening. So Dean rolls his hips just how he wants, completely in a frenzy, murmuring nonsense to his brother, who doesn't get to object.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Dean says, his voice rising with every repetition, until it's nearly a shout. He likes that he doesn't have to be quiet to get away with this. It makes it easier to pretend they're doing this for real, that his brother wants him with the same unendurable desperation that has been eating through Dean for years.

Sam makes a noise, he turns his head, smacking his lips before pushing his face into the pillow again. He's still smiling, though it's different, and it's clear from the way his cock is straining, fully hard and huge, beautifully pink with the blood rushing to it, Sam is enjoying this. Even if he doesn't remember, even if it's something completely different in his dream, Dean is making him feel good.

"Don't wake up, Sammy," Dean pleads, pushing hair away from Sam's face and bathing it in kisses. "Don't wake up yet, baby." He shoves in rough and groans. "Just let me have you a little longer. Stay asleep a little while longer."

The response Dean gets, an 'mmm' and more stillness, is enough of consent for Dean. He's not about to stop, not for the world. Not even if Sam did wake up, he realizes with not enough of his mind still intact to feel the shame. He's lost in a beautiful place, and a part of him wishes Sam would never awake, that he would never finish, and the hellhounds can tear him from here if they can find somewhere this perfect.

But of course, it can't go on forever. Dean feels too good, the whole thing is too much a respite from the constant flood of violence and loss that his life has become. It's much sooner than he would have liked when he feels his orgasm building, and he can't stop himself from throwing himself after it, chasing the pleasure as he artlessly humps into his compliant little brother.

He makes sure it's Sam's name that comes pouring from his lips as his cock empties into the perfect heat. Dean grips Sam's dick and jacks it fast, forcing Sam to spill after only a few seconds, so they're both shooting at the same time. Coming together, just like in a million of Dean's happier dreams.

He lies inside his brother for a long, long time. Holding Sam so close. He whispers all the things he won't get a chance to say before his time is up and his body gets torn into exactly as many pieces as he deserves. He stays there as long as he can get away with it.

Then he pulls out. Cleans his brother all over again, paying special attention to the places he's destroyed. He vanishes the evidence with the finesse their father taught him, doesn't leave a single stone unturned. By the time Sam finally blinks his eyes open and sits up, he's dressed in a fresh shirt and boxers, all tucked into bed by his big brother, who's always there to take care of him, help with his cuts and drag him home when he gets his stupid ass hit by a sleeping spell.

The only thing that's dirty is Dean, and there's no cleaning that up. There's no taking back what he did. He smiles at his brother, makes a cheap joke about what a rookie mistake it was and how lucky Sam was Dean didn't just ditch him.

Sam laughs, bright and wide and open. "Man, you even cleaned me up," he says, looking down at his shirt before meeting Dean’s eyes, his expression unfairly earnest. "You didn't have to do that."

"'Course I did," Dean replies, his voice coming out hoarse. Sam looks so trusting, so unsuspecting. God, how could Dean do that? How could Dean not? "I'm your big brother, aren't I?"

"Yeah, well," Sam says, stretching out on the bed. His shirt rides up, exposing a slip of hipbone, and how that can seem pornographic to Dean after what he just did is a mystery even to him. "You're right, it was a dumbass mistake. I could have gotten us both killed. I just thought I could reason with that warlock, you know? He didn't seem completely evil."

"Teaches you to try to make friends with a monster," Dean says, cutting his eyes away. Sam's made dumber mistakes than he knows, gotten closer to a monster much worse than that warlock had been. "How do you feel?"

"I know it's gonna sound crazy, but I feel great now, actually." Sam shrugs. "I guess I really needed the sleep."

"Bobby mentioned that it would be good for you, something about the spell is supposedly calming."

Sam nods like that makes sense to him. "We should figure out what it is. Might come in handy, with the way our lives go, to have some dependable way to sleep."

"Too risky, no off switch," Dean responds. If he learns that spell, he'll get addicted. And he wants to, that's the worst fucking part. His hands tremble but he clenches them into fists and pushes them against his thighs. "Believe me, I tried everything."

"Thanks," Sam says, his expression so warm and open, and he doesn't know he should hate Dean, so Dean has to carry all that hate himself. It sits crushing on his heart. "You're the best."