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And Other Poison Devils

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Dean gets the son-of-a-bitch. Stabs twelve inches of serrated steel between its ribs, then hacks off its obscenely long, sharp, poisonous tongue, which goes flying like a slab of meat and thunks into the barn's rotting walls.

"Ugh," Dean groans, looking at its corpse. Four feet long, dark brown and covered in slime Dean doesn't know what the hell it is exactly, but it's easily the nastiest creature Dean's ever seen. Like a giant slug with teeth. It's killed six men by sticking them with its hypodermic needle of a tongue, injecting them with venom that fucks up a man's brain with the need to fuck, and isn't that crazy? Three victims were still living only because they had wives or girlfriends nearby, and six guys were dead because they didn't—died from seizures and hemorrhages and with their dicks still hard.

Dean slides his knife against his thigh to get the gunk off, then wipes his forehead where the creature had sprayed him with cold dollops of slime. Job's done, at least. He'll phone Dad and then go back to their motel and call dibs on first shower.


Dean turns to see Sammy standing, huddled over himself, and registers the bright red of blood with a lurch. "It got me," Sam says even as Dean's coming to him, coming to make things better.

Sam straightens enough to let Dean grab his hands and pull them off his thigh. Blood slides from the puncture, but it's not deep, not even half an inch from what Dean can tell through the jeans. "It's not that bad Sammy," Dean assures. He looks up and sees Sam's pinched expression, fear making him unusually pale. Dean swallows. "It got you with the tongue?"

Sam nods his confirmation. Dean's hands flit over his shoulders and arms. "Okay. Okay. Let's get you sitting down, huh? That slows circulation right?" Sam doesn't respond. "Hey big brain, that'll slow it down right?"

Sam nods a tiny bit, wet eyes tracking slowly around the room. Dean gets him to sit on a stack of hay and pulls off his belt, wraps it above the wound and buckles it as tight as he can. Sam grunts and goes back to hunching over, breathing harshly through his nose.

With fingers that feel weak as tissue paper Dean pulls his cellphone out of his pocket and turns his back to Sam. Dad picks up on the second ring. "How's—"

"It got him, Dad," Dean wobbles out, "fuckin' thing stuck Sam right in the leg."

The connection crackles. "How'd the hell that happen Dean?! Weren't you watching him?!"

"Yes!" Always do. "Thing moved damn fast for a slug-y sunuvvabitch. I ganked it, it's dead now, but I—"

"How's Sam lookin'?" Dad cuts in, voice low enough that Dean feels his anger, and his own failure, shake his bones.

Dean turns around to look at his brother. Sam's sitting up rod-straight now, eyes doing that dazed trail around the barn again. His hands are shaking.

"I tied off his leg but it's in him, Dad." Dean almost says it's too late, but shakes those words from his throat. He's not letting Sam die.

"I'm comin', Dean." The line goes staticky again, then evens out. Dean hears the tinkle of keys and footsteps on Dad's end. But Dad's a ways away, looking into another hunt while he sent Sam and Dean to finish up the last. Supposed to have been an easy job, just waiting in the thing's hideout until it came back.

Wasn't supposed to go down like this.

"You're eighty miles away," Dean says, "Friday night; traffic's gonna be hell. You're not gonna get here in time."

"The hell I won't!" Dean hears the engine of Dad's truck start up. "Dean, just make sure Sam stays his ass in the barn. I'll be there."

Dean turns around again. "Dad, we don't got a cure," he whispers. "Only thing to do is—"

"Dean, I want you to get out of the barn and lock the door. Thing's rotten to hell but that latch still works. I want you to go sit in the Impala till I get there. You hear me? That's an order."

"Yessir." Dean steps over the dead creature. He grabs either side of the barn doors and brings them in, shuts himself and Sam inside. He mimes footsteps and knocks over a rake to mimic the sound of the Impala's door closing. "All right. I'm in the car."

"Don't you go back inside that barn," Dad growls. And hangs up.

Dean lets his arm fall slowly, lets his phone drop onto the hay and heads over to Sam.

"What's up, doc?" Dean jokes as he steps in front of his brother, grabs his shaking hands. Big hands, but his wrists are weedy like the rest of him still is because he's sixteen and taller than his father.

Sam's eyes flicker up to him. "Dean," he says. Nothing else forthcoming, Dean pulls on his arms. "You wanna get up, huh? Walk around?"

Sam gets to his feet easy enough, but just stands there, eyes skittering, catching on Dean, skittering, catching on Dean. "Sam," Dean says firmly.

"Dean," Sam says back. His eyes jerk to Dean's face and glue themselves there like he's noticing Dean for the first time.

Dean keeps the eye contact, though he wants to look away from all that weird focused intensity. "How bad's your leg hurt?" he tries.

Sam blinks. A drop of sweat leaks down his cheek. He inhales and looks towards the barn's doors and his expression tightens. "Locked?"

"Yeah it's locked. Hey," Dean claps a hand on Sam's shoulder, "hey, look at me." Sam does. "You all right?"

Sam's face goes through a bizarre display of ticks and twitches, frustration in his eyes. "Dean," he mutters. He pushes Dean away and shakes his head like a dog. "Dean Dean Dean. Dean."

"'m right here Sammy," Dean laughs, edged with nervousness.

"Hot," Sam complains, wiping at the sweat shining on his neck. He grabs both sides of his collar and pulls, cheap Goodwill threads ripping apart with a screech. The shirt comes apart under the flex of tendons in Sam's hands and falls away.

"Jesus," Dean says lowly. It's near freezing inside the barn, but Sam's torso is drenched, beads of perspiration falling down his sides, skirting around the start of chest hair on Sam's sternum.

Sam's gushing breaths, open mouth fogging up the air between them, red swathes brushed over the cut of his cheekbones. "Hot, Dean," he whines, sounding like he's five years old again and complaining to Dean about a tummy ache, like he expects Dean to snap his fingers and make it go away.

All Dean can say is, "I know, dude."

Sam wipes at himself ineffectually, then pushes his fingers through his hair and digs into his scalp, looking around the barn with an antsy expression like an animal in a too-small cage. His skin and muscles are all ticking, body trembling all over. Dean can feel the vibration of him; it thrums up through his feet and shudders in his ribs, a wild sort of energy.

Aside from Sam's heavy breaths, it's quiet in the barn, and the cool night outside is likewise uninterrupted. Dad's not gonna make it. If Dean doesn't help Sam, by the time the growl of Dad's truck reaches his ears, Sam'll be dead from seizures.

Sam's not there yet, but watching his muscles flinch like they are now, they're not too far off.

"It's gonna be okay Sammy," Dean assures, moving a little to catch the flicker of Sam's eyes, which latch onto him all over again. "You hear me? I'm not letting you croak from this bullshit."

Dean thinks Sam nods. Sam reaches for him, slow enough that Dean doesn't shy away, but surprising enough that Dean tenses up. Sam's hand fists into the shoulder of Dean's heavy black jacket and pulls.

"Whoa whoa, hey," Dean laughs, bringing his hands up to hold Sam's wrist. "Easy on the merchandise."

"Dean," Sam states sluggishly, barely moving his lips. He sighs a short breath of irritation and wiggles his wrist out of Dean's hold. His dart forward is unexpected and Dean gasps when he suddenly finds himself with Sam's heat pressed to him, Sam's head tilted down to drag the tip of his nose crossways under Dean's jaw, hot breath washing over his Adam's apple.

The sensation makes goosebumps pebble under Dean's clothes, stiffening his nipples and sending a blast of coldhot tingles through his body.

"Sam!" Dean steps back and away just as quick as his synapses spark, feeling weird and breathless, his insides a hot tangle. He rubs his neck, eyes finding the bulge in Sam's jeans.

Sam doesn't make a move towards him, just stands there looking pained, hands and feet fidgeting.

It's Dean who moves. Each step with leaden legs, spit drying up and leaving his teeth tacky and his tongue heavy. "Sam," he entreats when they're breathing the same air again. "Stay still."

Sam's eyes squeeze shut. "Hurts."

"'m gonna help you Sammy. Just don't move." Dean's tissue paper fingers fall to Sam's thigh and unbuckle the belt around it. It drops with a clink on the ground. Sam shakes his leg out, grips Dean's shoulder again.

Dean lets him, because now his fingers are at Sam's belt, knuckles brushing the hot slide of skin over the waistband. Dean feels Sam's nose snuffling over his ear, blinks hard to keep concentrating on getting Sam's belt undone, watching his own fingers and blatantly trying not to stare at the fabric poking out inches below his hands.

When the clasp is undone, Dean looks back up, knocking Sam's nose out of his hair. Sam looks down at him, pupils swallowing his irises, eyes sharper than knives. Moist breath warms Dean's face as he pulls the belt through the loops and out with a flap of leather, another clink when Dean lets it drop.

Dean doesn't think their faces have ever been so close. Dean could count the pores in Sam's skin, the tiniest moles, the black dots of brand new teenage stubble over the pursed peach of Sam's upper lip. If Sam's eyes weren't dilated, he could see the copper around his pupil, where green would fade into blue, and he wouldn't see any hunger there.

Sam smells him again, along his cheek this time, causing Dean to reflexively close his eyes. His fingers clench where they're curled over the edge of Sam's jeans, his heartbeat's pulsing in his ears, beating out wrongwrongwrong and godgodgod.

"Sam," Dean whispers when Sam snuffles into his hair, closing in to where their chests push together, Sam's dick poking into Dean's stomach. Sam runs his nose over Dean's temple, along Dean's hairline, down his other cheek, breathing in deep and exhaling short.

Dean thumbs over the ridge of button on Sam's fly, not sure what step to take, what he should be doing, if he's ready to warp the thing between them, if he's ready to cut the both of them on jagged rocks.

Sam's shaking against him. He's paused with his nose under Dean's ear, shuddering and thrumming like a big ball of absolute tension.

Restraint, Dean realizes. Sam's not out of the house yet, still has a foot in the doorway. Dean reaches up and strokes the back of his head, "I got you Sammy."

Sam hums out a wounded sound, pushing his body hard into Dean's, causing his spine to arch in to keep himself upright. "Need," Sam tells him, throaty. Sam's hands clutch his sides, then move down and slide up under Dean's shirts.

Dean's breath hitches tight; Sam's hands are hot, almost burning on their climb up over the crest of Dean's ribs. Dean jerks when his thumbs rub over the pebbles of his nipples, but Sam doesn't stop to investigate those; glides his palms up higher until Dean feels the jut of his knuckles hitting his collarbone as Sam's palms turn around and—

The sound of fabric yanking apart makes Dean's eyelids spring open, makes him seize Sam's arms to try and stop him, but Sam just tears and tears until the seam of Dean's undershirt gives, buttons from his overshirt snapping off as it's ripped apart. Sam moves back a little to push the ripped clothes off Dean's shoulders, rolls the jacket sleeves off Dean's arms, and all three layers fall away—leaving Dean shivering at the bite of cold on his skin and trying to stay calm.

Sam steps in again, buries his face in Dean's neck and grabs at his back, his ass, torso hot and sweaty against Dean's. Dean tries to catch his breath, fighting every urge to jump away from Sam; has to save his brother, and there's only one way, one way and Dean has to fucking let it happen.

"Deh—een," Sam bursts out, rocking against him. "Dean, help."

Dean's gonna wreck the both of them. But he's not gonna live a life without Sam in it, so he puts his forehead on Sam's shoulder and looks between their bodies, where Sam's cock fights the confines of his jeans and pushes into the low of Dean's stomach.

Dean prods the button out of Sam's jeans, feels a sucking warmth on his shoulder he knows is Sam's mouth as he pinches the zipper and pulls it down. Sam's cock springs out, making Dean jump because Jesus Christ the thing is—

Sam's warmth pulls away abruptly. He backs up a whole yard to shove his jeans off his hips and down his legs. His shoes go flying, and his jeans get tossed a moment later.

When he straightens, fully bare now, lean and shiny with sweat, Dean stares at his cock. "Fuckin' monster is that?" Dean wants to know. Goddamn, Sam's dick is big. Kind of dick Dean's only seen in porn flicks, on pornstars.

Dean wonders if it's a side-affect of the venom, but then Sam starts stroking it with a sure hand that's obviously used to the heft of it. "Dean," Sam gasps, eyes on him, red spilled down his cheeks and neck and blooming on his chest. He comes back over, jerks off with one hand and slides the other down the back of Dean's jeans.

Dean reels forward into Sam, hand scrabbling to get around Sam's forearm. "Don't!"

Sam's breathing so hard now he might be hyperventilating. He wraps his other arm in a steel band around Dean's back while fingers wedge themselves into Dean's crack, and his teeth fasten into Dean's neck.

Dean's world closes in. He goes still under the threat, under the ridge of bicuspids and the prick of canines caught just so in his skin. He feels Sam drag his middle finger up, down his cleft, searching. Dean whimpers and squeezes his eyes shut when he feels the press over his hole, steeling himself for pain.

Sam licks the skin between his teeth, humming from the bottom of his lungs. Dean feels the pressure grow insistent and his heart gallops up into his throat, makes him choke on cold air.

But Sam backs off. Lets his neck go and brings his hand out of Dean's jeans. Dean breathes hoarse and grateful.

Sam nips his earlobe, fumbling his hands along the top of Dean's jeans. He hooks his fingers under the waistband and pushes down on it, growling when it only scants down to the beginning of Dean's pubic hair. "Dean," he says like a reprimand, and Dean kind of wants to laugh at how irked he sounds.

"I'll do it." Dean steps back, unbuttons and unzips his fly, feels like chuckling again when he realizes that they both went commando since it's been awhile between laundromats and neither had a clean pair between them. He does laugh, thinking it'll lighten the situation, even as he's painfully aware of Sam still stroking his erection, of the hunger in Sam's eyes, how his own dick's gone from limp to al dente somewhere along the line.

When Dean's out of his jeans, and shoes, and naked but for the amulet sitting cold on his chest and the socks on his feet, he has to fight the urge to cover himself, to keep his eyes on Sam's face. Sure, they've always been closer than other brothers, but it feels wrong to expose himself like this, to see Sam exposed like this.

He's gonna fucking kick the bucket if you don't do this, Dean reminds himself. Dad might rather have Sam die, but Dean's always told himself he'd do anything to keep Sam in his life, and there's not a limit on that. Of course, Dean had imagined "anything" to be things like walking on hot coals, cutting his limbs off, noble sacrifice—not to be having sex with his brother in a cold barn in the ass-end of nowhere, with Sam a section 8.

Dean's never been with a guy, never had any inclination of it. But he knows how this is gonna work just the same.

There's no good spot to lay down. There's the packed hay against the wall, but Dean can feel the phantom prick and itch of it along his back already. That's out. They'll have to do it standing up he guesses, against the termite-chewed wall.

Sam's shaking all the harder, fingers jumping, eyelids flickering. Pre-come falls in a thin line from his dick which he's still scrabbling at; using his fingertips more than anything and scoring red lines up the shaft with the bite of his fingernails. Dean's cock hurts just looking at Sam's. It's not jerking off, it's like Sam's trying to scratch an itch out.

Dean's got the cure though. He sucks his own fingers into his mouth and gets his spit all over them, as much as he can. It's all they've got. Eyes averted, he reaches behind himself and just pushes one digit inside. It goes in, with pain and crushing tightness. He's never even fingered himself before. Never even fingered a girl there before.

"Fuck," he mutters, calves cramping up as his knees wobble. He swirls his finger around, and wonders why people do this anyway. It doesn't feel good, it fucking hurts, alien and invasive. His body clenches hard, like it's protesting, saying what the fuck are you doing? That doesn't go in there, take it out.

Dean does, only to put his finger back in his mouth to coat it in more spit, tries to imagine blueberry pies and lollipops to get his saliva glands pumping, so he doesn't think about where he just had his finger.

His finger goes in just a bit easier this time, slides up to the mount of his knuckle. When Dean finally looks at Sam, his brother's still perched in his place a yard away, still looking like he's trying to pull his cock off. His chin's dropped onto his chest, eyes closed like he's given up.

"Sammy!" Dean barks, which makes his brother look up, but through him more than anything. "Hang in there Sam," Dean tells him, pushing his finger against his walls to try and stretch himself. "This is all gonna be over soon. Then we're—ah—gonna get the hell outta dodge, get you some food, porterhouse steak or something. With the fixin's. Salad, damn gallon of Mr. Pibb, whatever you want. That sound good, Sam?"

Dean forces in another finger, constriction grinding the knuckles together. He's unable to separate them, has to keep his fingers crossed inside his body, and that's pretty damn funny, isn't it?

Sam's gonna split him apart. The circumference of his cock dwarfs Dean's two fingers, would still be bigger than four if he could fit them. Hell, it's probably bigger around than Dean's fucking wrist.

"Just pain," he says out loud to himself. "It's okay, 's okay. It'll be all right. People do it all the time."

With lube, the realistic part of Dean's brain reminds him. And with normal-sized dicks. And practice. With people not related to them.

Shit. Dean fits another finger inside and shakes his head, trying to keep his head clear. He can do this. He wiggles his fingers around inside him, feeling full. His own saliva tickles down his perineum and makes him shift on his feet. "Almost done Sam."

Just holding his fingers inside doesn't feel too bad, it's pulling them out that hurts; his rim clings to his fingers as he goes against the suction. Dean thinks if Sam could just get inside and stay put, that'd be enough to orgasm, so the first retreat Sam'll make from his body will be his last one.

Dean ekes out a little more spit and rubs it inside and around, then he's done. He's ready. He walks forward and grabs Sam's unoccupied wrist, leads him into the corner of the barn.

"I want you to just go ahead Sam," Dean tells him, even knowing Sam's long past understanding him. "Don't worry about me, I'll be all right, but you're gonna be in a box if we don't get this done. I'll deal with Dad too."

Dean turns around with a wince. God, Dad. Dad's gonna know. The inevitability makes his guts clench and freeze as more cold leeches the warmth from his fingers when he braces his hands on the barn's wall.

But his face heats as he lets his spine drop, thrusts his ass out in invitation. It feels surreal, gauzy like the dreams—just dreams—he's had a few times after he's gotten into Dad's stash of Jack. Dreams of hands pushing him down and getting filled to the brim, faceless men, waking up with come on the sheets.

Just his imagination though. Just dumb fucking dreams.

Dean's eyes are pinched shut as he feels Sam grab onto his hips, long fingers scalding lines on his lower stomach. Sam drags him back and Dean goes, resettling his feet when Sam stops. Sam's rickety chest, the points of his nipples, brush then settle on Dean's back and Sam's dick skates up his cleft, breathing damp on the nape of Dean's neck.

Shaking, they're both fucking shaking something fierce now, like twin bolts of lightning, two bees buzzing together. Dean takes a hand off the wall to put it over one of Sam's as if he could keep them from bursting if their atoms smash.

Sam's breaths soften, like he's copying the movement of Dean's ribs expanding against his chest. Sam breathes and the head of his cock catches, starts pushing in, in and in.

"Oh God," Dean utters, sure he can't take it. His legs shake, his throat closes up. Sam rings his forearms around his stomach and pulls him in relentlessly, drowns him like a river's current.

It's too damn much. Too damn much of Sam to take. But Sam keeps on coming, inches and inches, Dean spasming around him helplessly. Dean holds onto his forearm and tries to keep his lungs working, spit stringing from his open mouth, eyes watering.

Sam's teeth jag over the nape of his neck, pressing in, then gentling over and over as his dick makes its own room within Dean's body.

Sammy, Dean mouths, shoulderblades scrunching together under Sam's chest. He's overflowing; it's pain, fullness he has no business experiencing.

After what feels like miles of cock, Dean feels the plump of Sam's balls nestle tight against his own, beating their own pulse. Dean fills his lungs to the point of ache and lets it come out shaky and stilted.

Sam's in him. Utterly, completely. Dean tenses around his cock inadvertently. Sam gasps, Dean gasps, wonders how it's possible to be so full. So uncomfortable and full. It's horrible, terrible, dark and dirty.

"Sam," Dean groans from the bottom of lungs. He licks the saliva from his lips with a dry tongue, digs his toes into the ground to try and anchor himself, remind himself to not get lost in this. Because he could. God, he'd swim too deep and let the sea of this collapse his lungs and burst his eardrums.

"Dean," Sam says, low enough that it might've just been Dean's imagination. He starts pulling back.

"No, don't Sam!" Dean tries to stop him, but Sam's already been under the tide too long, turned into nothing, just a body that needs to fuck.

It hurts far more than the retreat of his fingers. His hole torturously grips Sam's cock like it's trying to suck him back in even as Sam's pulling out, out and out.

Dean hisses, spittle spraying out from his clenched teeth. He digs his fingernails into the wall until crud is packed under his nails and fights every instinct to jerk his hips away from the pain. "Sam, God. Sam, fuckin'—hurry it up, Christ—"

Probably two thirds out, Sam cants his hips forward again, letting Dean suck him back inside. No better, of course. Kind of agony Dean can only compare to getting stabbed deep. His tears are hot on his chilled cheeks, drip off his chin. Sam holds him tighter, digging into his diaphragm and making him feel that much more stuffed.

When Sam moves inexorably out again, Dean sobs quietly, face stuck in the crook of his elbow. He's pretty sure his spit has evaporated and now Sam's just fucking him dry, judging by the awful friction and the way his insides stick and cling around Sam's cock.

Sam licks the back of his neck when he's fully sheathed again, warm wet of his tongue over such sensitive skin making Dean shudder his shoulders. His nipples, dick, harden. If they had lube maybe, and Dean could enjoy the fullness without the pain—like in his dreams—maybe...

He's so fucked up. He's fucking the both of them up irreversibly. Dean opens his eyes, vision smeared with tears. He hangs onto reality in the form of watching his hand clench on the wall, seeing his feet flex on the ground, in the hot slide of Sam's chest over his spine.

Sam's thrusts quicken, but become shallower, only retreating a couple inches at a time. Dean breathes in short gasps, Sam snarling in reply. Sam bites at him, growls, bites, licks and eventually starts sucking kisses across the skin he's got access to.

Dean's breath hitches when he feels Sam's lips press under and behind his ear, sending a flush of tingles down his body. Sam straightens them up a bit, then one of his hands falls to grab at Dean's dick.

Dean shies away with nowhere to go. "Don't," he says, trying to brush the hand off and deal with the new angle of Sam's dick in his ass at the same time.

"Dean," Sam grunts with a hard lurch of his hips. He sounds like a man, Dean thinks. Not his sixteen year old Sammy whose voice could lure birds from the trees.

A sudden realization makes Dean's spine straighten the same time as Sam's hand squeezes around his cock. Oh God. "Man, I am sorry as hell," Dean tells him while his cock rises under Sam's palm. "Sammy. God, I'm sorry. Sam."

Sam doesn't give a fuck of course. That he's losing his damn virginity to his brother. Dean feels sick inside, guilt burning his ribs. He almost pukes when he looks down and sees that his cock's decided to give into Sam's hand. He can feel the curl of dark arousal low in his belly as Sam's balls slap into his, as Sam edges a clumsy thumb around the lip of Dean's cock.

"Dean." Sam's licking and biting more enthusiastically now, thrusts turning frantic, falling off rhythm. He crowds Dean up against the wall, shoving up inside him in short punches that make Dean go ah, ah, ah. There's something inside him that Sam slides over every third thrust or so, a spot that has Dean pushing back instantaneously. It feels fucking fantastic, even if Dean hates that it does. The burn in his ass isn't too bad anymore. Dean hopes that isn't because he's torn and blood is soothing the way.

"C'mon Sam," Dean grits when he's got some breath. "Let go already." He tightens around Sam's cock purposely. Sam bites him hard, definitely going through skin this time, but it's buried under everything else, just another drop in the bucket.

"Deh—een," Sam keens. He palms at Dean's balls, fingers where Dean's stretched around him, then goes back to Dean's cock and strokes roughly from root to tip. The start of calluses on the mounts of his palm scrape just this side of pleasant.

When Dean comes, he sucks his bottom lip in his mouth and keeps quiet. His eyes roll back and his hips tip into Sam's hand, cock shooting white streams up the wall. It's not exactly the best he's had; the contractions of his ass around Sam's dick is a bizarre and painful feeling, and he would've rather not come in the first place, or gotten hard to begin with.

What kind of pervert does this make him?

"Dean, Dean, fuck, fuck, fuck," Sam's hushing out, thrusting brutal and erratic. There's gonna be bruises from how hard he's gripping him. Shape of Sam's big hands on his hips. The phantom feel of his dick might keep Dean up a few nights, able to feel it still punching inside him. He might even dream about it.

Sam pulls almost all the way out, then buries himself to the hilt, hip bones slapping into Dean's ass. Dean grunts, bead of sweat tickling down his neck. Sam's snarling and going crazy behind him, crushes Dean to his chest and bites him again. Dean can't feel Sam come, but knows that's what's going on just the same. He stands there and takes it and feels relief.

When Sam's just draped over him and catching his breath, Dean turns around cautiously. Sam's softened cock slips out, come likely following it. Dean pays that no attention. He puts his hands on Sam's wet shoulders and catches his eyes. Sam looks back at him. Dean wraps him in a hug, enjoying how still Sam is now. No more shakes; the venom's satisfied.

"Gotta get dressed," Dean says when he finally lets his brother go. "Dad's gonna be here in a few minutes."

"Dad?" Sam croaks. He cups the side of his head and grimaces. "I—I gotta sit down."

"No no no, you gotta help me get you dressed," Dean says, a sort of almost hysterical note worming into his voice. He picks up Sam's belt and jeans and just stands there with them as he realizes they got no shirts to wear. Both ripped. Only Dean's jacket's viable.

"Oh man, oh man," Dean mutters. He goes back to Sam and starts kneeling down to get him to step into the jeans.

"I can put on my own damn clothes Dean," Sam hisses, snatching them away. Dean sees that where the slug monster stuck him in his thigh has cleared up, nothing to show it was ever there.

Dean nods. "All right." He goes to get his own jeans and jerks them up his legs, nearly falling over once or twice. His limbs feel like lead, fingers too big to zip up his fly. He buckles his belt, then grabs one of the tattered shirts and heads back to the spot where him and Sam fucked.

He wipes his come off the wall, skin prickling at the eyes he can feel on him. He scrapes hard enough at the wall to get a good smear of dirt on the shirt too, then tosses it in the corner.

"Dad's gonna know," Sam says from behind him.

Dean turns to face him. "Yeah. He is. I'll—"

"How could you do that?" Sam cuts in, voice barely over a whisper. Dean looks at him; standing there in just his jeans, nest of hair sticking up in places. Just a kid.

Dean draws himself up, tries for a light-hearted smirk. "Think I'd let some dead slug kill my brother? Sam, c'mon, you wanna go out with more class than that right?"

Sam just stares at him.

Dean deflates, raises his arms and lets them slap against his sides. "What was I s'posed to do, let you die?"

"That's what Dad told you to do."

Dean feels a hot wash of anger pour over him. "If I'd've stayed in that car Sam," Dean says, "you'd be lying on the ground with your brain leaking out through your ears!"

"Yeah, well, maybe that'd be better than having to fuck my own brother!" Sam shouts, and Dean wonders briefly if there's any venom still active because Sam bares his teeth like an animal.

Dean snorts a laugh, looking away. "You don't mean that. Anything's better than you bein' dead."

Sam shakes his head quickly, lips folded in. Dean thinks he's about to cry. "I did what I had to do, and I'd do it again," Dean says, softer. "C'mon Sam, let's skip moping about it and get to the part where we start movin' on, huh?"

Sam scoffs. He looks up at the barn's ceiling and sucks his teeth. "Dean, we just had sex. And I... you..."

Dean scrubs a hand down his mouth and chin. "Look, Sam, it doesn't matter, okay? You got infected, I helped you, it's done. Dad's probably gonna tan my hide good, but you're still breathing and that's a win in my book. Think we can shelve this for now?"

"Shelve it," Sam repeats lowly, head dropping down to pin Dean with his eyes. "Yeah. Okay. I guess we'll just carry on and act like nothing's changed then?"

"Nothin' has changed!" Dean asserts. This is the very thing he feared; not being able to go back to the brothers they were before this. "You're Sam, I'm Dean, Dad's Dad, and the world keeps on'a spinnin'!"

"That's what you—"

"That's what it is, Sam," Dean says firmly. "So, what? You had your dick up my ass." Sam winces. "Doesn't mean the world's flipped on its head. God Sam, this isn't—this isn't some kind of one-night stand bullshit, this is me keeping you from getting your damn ticket punched. Did what I had to do. So you can go ahead and think this changes things all you want, but things are still the same over here."

There's a rumble beneath Dean's feet which reminds him that one, he forgot about their shoes, and two, Dad. "And I'm sorry as hell," Dean says, spotting Sam's shoes where he had flung them. "Sorry I couldn't just leave your ass to rot in here. Sorry this is what had to happen. What else do you want?" Dean shoves Sam's sneakers in his hands. "Get your feet dressed."

Dean finds his own boots and sits on a haystack to pull them on. The rumble cuts out in front of the barn, and Dean hears the thump of the door. He can picture in his mind Dad looking in the Impala and discovering the distinct lack of Dean, then looking at the barn and knowing.

Boots on, Dean gets up to open the doors. He has to step over the dead creature, which he viciously kicks for all the damn trouble it's caused.

Frigid air gusts in when Dean parts the doors. "Dean," Dad says, only a couple of feet away, dark hair whisking around with the wind, breath tumbling from his mouth in a white column.

"Hey Dad." Dean smiles—guilty, guilty, guilty—aware of how he must look: shirtless, dirty, hair messed up, scratched and bitten. Inexplicably, he wants a hug. Doesn't deserve it though.

"Sam?" Dad asks.

Dean straightens his back and looks his father in the eye. "He's fine."

Dad blinks slow, expression taut. "He decent?"


Dad moves past him into the barn. Sam gets the hug Dean had wanted, but doesn't reciprocate it, just keeps on staring at Dean over Dad's shoulder.

None of them say much of anything. Dad studies the dead monster and thinks there's probably more of the creatures. Dean wants to think he just killed off the last one and ended the species for good. Sam hangs back and stares and when he's not staring he's already started talking back to Dad.

"All right, let's blow this joint," Dad says when there's no reason to stick around the barn anymore. "Dean, you're with me. Hand your keys to Sam."

"Sam doesn't have his license," Dean gripes, but fishes in his jean's pocket for his keys and passes them over. Sam takes them and their eyes catch when their fingers brush.

Dean clears his throat. "My duffel's got some extra shirts in it," he tells Sam. "Want the black one."

Sam nods sullenly and heads over to the Impala. Dean turns to their father and crosses his arms over his chest. "Don't think I trust Sam with Baby," he says, light-hearted.

"Don't think I can trust you with Sam," Dad returns, rubbing his brow.

Dean's heart falls somewhere down into his intestines. He looks away and chews the inside of his cheek. "What was I supposed to do, let him die?"

"You were supposed to wait till I got there. I gave you orders." John shakes his head and sighs. "What good's a soldier if he can't follow orders, Dean?"

And Dean's a soldier sure, but he's also a brother, and that title comes first. "Sam woulda shuffled off his mortal coil by the time you showed. I took the initiative; Sam's still breathin'. You said it's my job to keep him safe, right? Didn't I do that?"

Dad presses his lips tight, just like Sam does. His hand falls away from his brow, jaw muscle ticking. "I don't like the way he's lookin'," Dad muses while they watch Sam come back to them, red sweatshirt on.

Dean doesn't either. Though he supposes as repulsed as Sam is about having had sex with him, it's to be expected. Sam hands him the black shirt he wanted with his eyes cast off to the side.

Dean gets the shirt on, affording his skin some reprieve from the wind and cold. "Careful with my wheels, Sammy."

"It's Sam," Sam corrects automatically, but his eyes are on Dad now, waiting for further orders.

"We get back, get food in us, then get some rack," Dad says, looking between the two of them. "We're heading to Denver tomorrow. Looks like a ghoul."

"Yessir," Sam and Dean say.

Dad gives Sam a gruff sigh then turns, "let's go Dean."

From inside Dad's truck, Dean watches the Impala's headlights beam out, watches her get spun a little too rough when Sam pulls out onto the road. No way to treat a car, but hey, Dean's the one who taught him to drive.

Dad only starts the truck when the Impala's taillights get lost in the night. "Think you'll need a trip to the ER, Dean? Tell me now, else we're turning in."


"You're walking funny," Dad says, "Funnier'n usual anyways."

Dean's lips quirk up. "I'll be all right," he says. "It wasn't..." He gestures pointlessly, falls back into his seat. What the fuck can he say?

Dad pulls onto the road with a meaningful grunt that tells Dean he sure as hell doesn't want to hear details. "Guess I'm just lucky you two are all right, huh?"

"Yeah," Dean mutters.

Dad lets out a papery sigh after a few minutes of silence. "I'm not saying you did the right thing. I'm not saying you did the wrong thing either. But you made that decision, now you're gonna have to carry that weight. You get my meaning, Dean? We can sweep this under the rug all we want, but it's." Dad shakes his head, white-knuckling the wheel. "Goddammit, I don't wanna talk about it. We're not gonna talk about it, Dean."

Dean nods.

"Why don't you tell me how a giant slug got the jump on the two of you."

Dean does.


There's bite marks on the back of Dean's neck. Dean knows this because he takes a shower the next day in their new Denver hotel room. As he's shampooing his hair, his palm glides over his nape and catches on rough scabs. He quickly rinses off and gets out and pukes in the sink.

He puts on his highest-collar jacket and occupies himself with oiling his guns, sharpening his knives. Sam had found the nearest library and parked himself there, and Dad only stayed around long enough to order their rooms before he'd taken off and left Dean a new credit card and ID on the nightstand, registered under the name Axl Hetfield.

Dean'll probably go to the seediest bar he can find tonight and waste a hundred dollars. Will smile and flirt with the bartender and won't even get carded because he must be older than twenty-one. Maybe twenty-six, like it says on Axl Hetfield's driver's license.

Dean feels older than that though, always has. More like forty.

He starts feeling more like seventy as days lengthen into weeks. Dad deals with the ghoul, then they're in Arkansas about a werewolf, then they're in Iowa about vampires. Sam goes through the motions, avoids talking to Dean unless it's absolutely necessary. At first Dean tries busting through his walls, determined to get their old friendship back. Determined to make sure they're not gonna fucking lose anything, determined to go back to who they were and please, God, Sammy, can't we move on?

But Dean can't get through to him. So he pulls away—like Sam wants—and buries himself in women and drinks long into the night. Yeah, Dean's at the bar again, who the hell cares? Yeah, Dean fucked the waitress on Sammy's bed while he was out, what's he gonna do?

Dad tells him to get his shit together because you're setting a bad example for Sam, and Dean's just so tired. Dad settles them down in Illinois and says they're staying for a few months. Rents out an admittedly decent albeit old house, gets Sam enrolled in school again. Sam brightens up a little, the fuckin' nerd, now that he's got homework to do and soccer practices to stain his shins green. But school also goes to enforce his stupid desire to be normal, so him and Dad have it out most nights in the form of bitten words, glares, and nights like tonight, red-faced shouts.

Dean's on his bed, door closed. Not that the thin wood does any favors to muffle Dad and Sam. Dean puts the half-empty bottle to his lips and swallows down a healthy mouthful of whiskey. He should be out there mediating, he used to, but he can't muster the words anymore; the passion to keep his family on good terms with each other, have them working smooth like an oiled machine, it's not there. He lets things get taut and chafe, ignores how they all are just pieces of angry sandpaper now, eager to erode and hurt.

Not like Sam and Dad are actually gonna kill each other. Sam throws things sometimes, not at Dad, but near, and they get in each other's face and spit, but Dean's sure it would never come to blows. Both have too much pride and control for that. Like birds, they just posture and peck.

Dean chuckles past his burning throat. He jumps and splashes whiskey on himself when the door bangs open and Sam whips inside, wearing red, colored red. He kicks the door shut so hard Dean's pretty sure it's loose on its hinges now.

"Fucking asshole," Sam hisses, stamping over to his bed and falling like a skyscraper into the give. He growls something into the blankets that sounds like shithead or maybe dickhead—either way it's something he wouldn't say to Dad's face.

Dean takes another long pull, considers his brother's back and the spill of his chestnut hair on the cream bedding. "What he do thish time?" Dean slurs, then breaks into a creaky laugh.

Sam shakes his head, rolling his face in the bed. He doesn't answer for a few moments, so Dean decides he won't and tips the bottle in his mouth again. Why does he bother still.

But then Sam says, "There was a contest in my creative writing class and I entered, probably have a big chance of getting first place. They're giving out the awards next week."


Sam makes a frustrated sound. "Yeah, well, I thought Dad might come. Just once, you know. Everyone else's parents..." Sam clenches his fists and seethes out a breath. "Well, turns out Dad can't be bothered."

"Dad's busy," Dean defends automatically. It's the same thing he said when Dad couldn't make it to Sam's Our Town play, or Sam's championship soccer game, or to parent-teacher conferences. "I'll go," he offers, the automatic follow-up.

Sam scoffs. "Yeah right. You hold onto that bottle even when you're asleep. I think you drink more than Dad does now."

Dean puts the bottle on the nightstand. Sam sits up, and for the first time in a long time actually meets his eyes. "Dean," he starts, before his voice gives out. He knuckles his eyes and then rubs his hands over his knees. "I can't stop thinking about it Dean," he says quietly.

Dean's way too drunk for this. He wills his tongue to lighten up and tries to rev his idle brain. He doesn't want to wreck things further. He can hear Dad outside the room opening the fridge, going for his own alcohol. Sam's got them both drinking. Dean buttons down a burst of inane laughter at the thought.

"I forgot about it pretty quick," Dean says coolly.

"That why you're drinking then?"

"'m drinkin' 'cause you can't forget about it. You barely even talk to me." Dean clenches his teeth and looks away. "Barely even look at me."

Dean thinks he might've loosened up his tongue too much.

Sam shifts, looks pained when Dean brings his eyes back to him. Sam runs a hand through his hair. "I'm not like you, Dean. Not like Dad. You know, and... It's... I can't get past it. I can't look at you without thinking. Without thinking what you and I—"

"I'm sorry," Dean croaks. He drops his face into his hands before Sam can see it crumble. He inhales raggedly, anger churning hot inside him, spilling through his limbs. He digs his fingernails into his hairline; he wants to tear himself apart. Wants to get his knife and stab, stab, stab.


The outlet's the whiskey bottle. Dean rips his hand off his face and grabs it, stands and heaves it at the stretch of wall beside the door. Brown glass and amber liquid explodes and falls like rain. "Fuck!"

Sam stands and tries to grab him. "Dean—"

Dean shoves him violently, then fists his hands in his shirt and hauls him back in just as quick. "I'm fucking sorry!" he screams gutturally. He shakes Sam hard. "Fucking, I'm fucking so sorry, you know how damn sorry I've been?!"

Sam's throat bobs. "I—I know, Dean. Can you calm—"

Dean lets him go, breathing too hard. Rage is making him dizzy, sick, vision sparkling. Oh God, what can he do?

He stumbles away, socked feet stepping on glass. Wants to throw himself down on all those shards. He grasps at air senselessly. "Sammy," he sobs after a heave of breath. The room's spinning, tipping and Dean's reaching for something to hold onto—

He collides with something warm and lets himself be taken in, forced to break open.

"Dean, Dean, it's okay, I got you, okay?" Sam hushes, close. Dean grabs and pulls at him, breathless because Sam's hugging him and it's been so long. Dean worms in closer, pressing their bodies together chest to toes. He buries his face in Sam's shoulder and grips him tight.

It's wrong to be this tight together, reminds Dean of—

"I can't," he says weakly. "Sam, I can't."

But Sam's holding him just as tight, arms ringed under Dean's ribs, fingers clawed on either side of his spine. "I'm sorry Dean," Sam says wetly. "I'm... Dean, there's something I..."

"I liked it." Dean's dirtiest admission, and it falls low and dark from his lips. His guts squirm with shame and he has to move back out of the clutch of Sam's arms.

"No," Sam breathes hoarsely, looking ruined.

Dean's throat constricts all over again. Whiskey's soaking his socks, glass piercing his heels. "I'm fucked up," he whispers. "Get why you don't wanna look at me. I'm a freak, a fuckin' sicko."

"Why's—" Sam pierces his own feet to step in closer, hands finding Dean's biceps. "Don't say that."

"'s true. I wrecked everything." Dean squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn't have to see anything, tears forced out and dripping down.

"You saved me."

Dean shakes his head and laughs. "I raped you."

"You don't believe that bullshit. I don't. It was—it was a weird situation, Dean. I could've." Sam stops.

Dean opens his eyes to watch his brother. "What?"

Sam looks at him with something that looks like devastation. "Don't you think I might've been a little bit aware, Dean? Don't you think I might've liked it too?"

"No," Dean whispers, to everything. "Don't say shit like that Sammy. Just don't."

Sam pulls him closer, tears breaking over his lower lids. "You need to hear it. Dean, what I wanted to tell you—"

Dean shakes his head, "don't. No. Suh—Sam, let me go. Let's go to bed. Stop talking. Just stop. We can... We can forget this conversation ever happened, okay? I've been drinking, and you're, you're..."

"Sober," Sam says, so close his sugary breath heats Dean's wet cheeks. "Was never mad at you Dean. Was mad at myself for wanting you."

Dean wants to slam his hands over his ears. "Stop it."

Sam tightens his hands around his arms. "Wanted you way before I was forced to. Get it? And it's sick and wrong, I know, but I can't fuckin' help it."

"You don't mean any of that," Dean insists. "This is, this is just some kind of reaction, or something. You're just tired; you need some sleep."

Dean notices that Sam's looking at his lips and turns his face away, on the edge of breaking down. "Sam," Dean quakes out, "Sam, I'm your brother. You can't think that way about your brother."

Sam's hands drift down his arms to hold his wrists. "You do," he says tentatively, "you do, Dean."

Dean shakes his head in denial. He can feel phantom touches all over, inside him, snapshots of the horrible sin they committed. Thinks of the dreams he had after, of being filled, and his hands wrapped in what could only be Sam's hair. Oh God no.

He turns his head back to say those very words, but his lips get caught in Sam's. Dean rocks back on his heels in shock, Sam just following him, lacing his arms around him and slotting them together once more.

No, Dean mouths against the soft of Sam's lips, makes a sound of protest in the back of his throat.

Sam turns them a little and pushes Dean into the wall, right into the whiskey stain. His lips push urgently at Dean's while Dean blinks and breathes through his nose, paralyzed with shock.

"Come on," Sam says hotly, surging against him. "No one's gonna know."

"Sammy," Dean chokes. "I know you don't want this."

Sam growls, "I do. I have, for a long time."

That can't be true. Dean thinks over the last few years, trying to remember any signs, to find any truth in what Sam's saying. God, wouldn't he have noticed if...?

"Bullshit," Dean says, strengthening his voice. "I'm your brother." And this is sicksicksick.

"Yeah, I figured that out," Sam snarks between presses of his lips on Dean's chin. "And I don't care. I love you."

"Like a brother," Dean coaxes.

Sam nips him lightly. "Like a lover."

"Sammy, no. Oh God, that's so screwed up. We can't do this, Sam."

Sam kisses down the side of his neck, wet tongue sliding, causing Dean to be back there—nipples and cock stiffening, cold and ashamed.

"You think that was all the venom?" Sam husks, shoving his hips into Dean's. He's hard. Dean is too. "No, it was me. Horny out of my skull, no inhibitions, but it was me. I fucked you. You're the first person I've ever fucked, you know that?"

"Yes," Dean says, squirming back into the wall like he might be able to force himself through it.

Sam pulls his face back, lion-eyes sharp. "And I was the first person to fuck you."

That's of course, true. "Yeah," Dean says, trying to find some damn words to say, to think through the buzz of alcohol. He's gotta stop whatever this is.

"It won't hurt if we use lube next time," Sam whispers, like he's telling Dean a secret.

Dean blinks rapidly, looking up at Sam. "There ain't gonna be a next time. There's not gonna be a next anything Sam, don't you get that?" Dean pushes him back finally. "I don't care what you feel or I feel, what you want... We can't have that, Sam. We're staying brothers."

Sam gestures with his eyes to Dean's crotch. "Yeah, real brotherly Dean."

Dean ignores the comment, and his hard-on. "We don't need to be anything other than brothers. You think we need more complication in our life? What about the big normal? You know how much of a freak that'd make me and you?"

Sam's eyes snap down to the floor. "I don't care," he says sullenly.

"Yeah you do." Dean wipes a hand down his mouth. He steps out of the destruction of the whiskey bottle, puts some distance between them. "Look, if you're gay or something, whatever. Good for you. Hell, you're probably just projecting, Sam. You don't really want me. Maybe you want a guy like me, I don't know, but..."

"I'm not gay," Sam says. "There's no—there's not any guys I feel this way about. Or any girls. It's just you."

"Well liking me kind of negates the whole 'I'm not gay' thing, doesn't it?" Dean grumbles, sitting down on his bed. He pulls his sock off to judge how bad the cuts are.

"I don't care what it's called," Sam says. "I'm—"

"Sixteen and really fuckin' confused," Dean finishes for him. "Yeah, I get that."

Sam's fists clench. "You're just like Dad, you know that?" he snarls.

Dean grits his teeth. "Oh yeah, go ahead and pull that card."

"Neither of you fucking take me seriously," Sam continues. "I might be sixteen but I'm smarter than the two of you put together and I'm definitely not fuckin' confused about anything. I know what I want."

"Mm-hm. Sure." The cuts aren't too bad. Will make walking tomorrow a bitch, but that's about it.

Dean looks over at his brother. Sam's staring at him. He kind of looks eerie just standing so still like that, eyes like a bird of prey's. Poised like he's fixed to nab Dean up in his talons and steal him away.

"Better get to bed," Dean says, getting up and finding his sleep clothes. "You got school tomorrow."

Dean takes his clothes into the bathroom to change, and when he comes out Sam's at least sitting down on his own bed, head bowed and hands clasped.

"I'll clean that glass up tomorrow," Dean tells him, looking at the mess. He falls on his own mattress, squirming until he's under the covers and on his stomach, neck turned to look at his brother.

Sam meets his eyes under the fringe of his hair for several long seconds, before they flick to Dean's neck. Sam double takes. "What's that?" he asks.

"'s what?" Dean goes very still, because there's some giant-ass spiders in this place, and that'd be just his luck to have one in his damn bed.

"On your neck." Sam stands up and walks over, leans over him. "These red marks."

His thumb edges over the nape of Dean's neck and explodes Dean's body with electricity. Shuddering, Dean turns his neck the other way.

"Are those...? Are those bite marks?"

And yeah, they are. Sam's. Scabbed and scarred over by now, several pink arcs on either side of his spine, another on the back of his left shoulder; sin forever marked on his body.

Dean rolls onto his back, staring up at Sam curiously. "You don't remember chomping into me like a rib roast?"

Sam shakes his head. Dean throws an arm across his eyes. "Good that was the venom then. If that's a normal thing for you it'd scare the chicks away."

"I'm sorry," Dean hears Sam murmur.

Not your fault, Dean thinks. "Yeah," he says.

"I'm gonna take a shower," Sam says. Dean listens to him pad into the bathroom and close the door, to the loud jolt of water through old badly insulated pipes as he starts the shower.

Dean pulls the covers up securely around his chin and falls asleep on his back.


Dean goes to the award ceremony, where Sam does indeed get first place, a certificate, and a giftcard. Sam hugs him a little too long after, stands a little too close, speaks a little too low. But that's okay.

Dean turns twenty-one in January. He gets a clap on the back from Dad, happy birthday Deano, and a pretty penny; Dad's taken up a job at a repair shop in the little town they're staying in. Sam gives him a happy birthday man and sweeps him into a hug. He doesn't hug right, like he used to—it's full body contact and he likes to put his arms under Dean's, around his waist. Not the way a brother hugs.

When the day's winding down, Sam and Dean are sitting on the edge of the back deck and Dean's about to trade in his can of pop for a can of beer. He gets up and, feeling great and generous, nudges Sam with his leg. "Hey, you want a beer?"

"Hardy ha," Sam deadpans, scraping his heel into the grass.

"'m not jokin'. Bud or Coors?"

Sam looks up at him, skin and eyes gold in the sunset's light. "You're serious? What about Dad?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Dad's upstairs scrapbooking in his journal. But believe me, he probably thinks you need a few beers; he won't be mad. Plus, you're sixteen, dude. Had my first at thirteen."

Sam smiles softly. "All right. I'll have what you're having then."

"That's my boy." Dean heads into the house, where the warmer air heats his chilled cheeks. He throws his can of coke away, then grabs the nearest jacket and two Budweisers from the fridge.

"Here ya go," he says when he's sitting next to Sam again. Sam takes the beer with a snorted, "thanks." Dean doesn't open his own beer until he's watched Sam pop the tab on his and take a short swallow.

Sam's reaction is immediate. "Ugh," he says, looks at the can like it's personally betrayed him. "It's nasty!"

Dean laughs, opens his and takes a drink. "It's total ass, right?"

Sam takes another ginger sip, makes another face. But a few more sips, and he's not making it anymore. Dean smiles, looking at the horizon, content to just sit with his brother. His thigh is pushed against Sam's, but that's all right; it's cold out.

They finish their beers at the same time. "Want another?" Dean asks deviously, jumping his eyebrows up.

"I guess. 'm not really feeling anything yet."

When the sun's dipped down and they're four ounces into their second beers, Sam clears his throat and digs into the pocket of his hoodie. "I got you something."

"Aw Sammy, you shouldn't have," Dean chuckles.

"Yeah," Sam sighs, "but I did." Sam picks up Dean's wrist and something heavy and cold is pushed down his ring finger. Dean blinks to see what it is in the dark. The gleam of metal reflects the light from the kitchen window behind them.

"A ring?" Dean questions, surprised. It's double-banded and a clean silver color. Not something he might've picked out on his own, but nice.

"Yeah," Sam says, voice a little too high for nonchalance. "I found it a while ago, actually. Remember that haunted jewelry shop?"

"You stole this?"

Sam shakes his head. "When that spirit blew out the display glass, all the rings went flying. That one landed in my hood."

"No fuckin' way!"

"Yep. I didn't realize it was there till we got back and I bent down to untie my shoes and it fell on the floor. It was too loose on me, but," Sam studies the ring, "looks like it's just right on you. You can use it to open bottles or something."

"Thanks Sammy," Dean says, wrapping his arm around Sam's shoulders, their sides pushing together. "Won't ever take it off."

He clinks his beer with Sam's, takes a drink then looks up at the sky. There's a big stretch of it overhead, cloudless with the first stars starting to blink into existence. It makes Dean feel unsubstantial, which is both an uncomfortable feeling and a pleasant one—to think that he's pretty damn small in the scheme of things, that what he does doesn't really matter. That the sun still rises and sets, that even if Dean cashed in his chips tomorrow afternoon, the stars would still come out that night.

Something soft and warm presses against his cheek, then goes away. Dean looks down and over to Sam, whose face is way too close, who just kissed him on the cheek. "What're you doing?" Dean breathes, can crinkling as his fingers squeeze it.

"I wanna kiss you," Sam whispers, alcohol-breath pouring into the ice of the air.

"Sam, c'mon. You can't. We can't do that." Dean turns his face away and starts to pull his arm off Sam's shoulders.

Sam drops his beer on the ground and twists his torso to hold Dean's face, collides their mouths so forcefully Dean's top lip gets cut on his canines.

Sam's mouth is gone just as quick. He strokes his fingertips behind Dean's ears and bows his head. Reeling, Dean puts his beer beside him and brings his hands up to hold Sam's wrists. He doesn't pull them off though. Not yet. "Sam."

Sam shakes his head. "I'm sorry," he says. His voice is watery, and when he does look up Dean can see the slick of tears on his cheeks. "God, Dean..."

Seeing him cry makes Dean's heart bunch up, makes him desperate to fix it, fight whatever's causing Sammy pain. Sammy, who's still fucking in love with him, like he said months ago, and Dean's been deluding himself with the hope it had faded, and now he's faced with this, and oh God what can he do but give in?

Dean clears his throat. "After—after... I didn't stop thinking about it either, okay?" Dean squeezes Sam's wrists until bone bites back. "You can't forget that kinda shit, you're right."

Dean rolls his tongue over his teeth, hisses out a breath. "It screwed me up."

"You're not, Dean. You're not screwed up," Sam whispers.

"Yeah, I am. You gotta believe me Sam, I never thought the kinda things I think now, before it happened. I'm not—I wasn't, perverted like that, looking at my little brother like that, because that's sick. And now I'm." Dean chuckles, "God help me Sammy, I get where you're comin' from. I don't know what this is between us, what to call it, what you want from me, but the dreams I've been having lately..." Dean trails off as they flood back into his consciousness, where he usually doesn't let them stay.

"What dreams?" Sam asks fervidly. His thumbs press into Dean's cheekbones, swipe under his eyes like there's tears to wipe up. "Dean, what dreams?"

Dean closes his eyes and takes in a trembling breath. For a second, he thinks he won't be able to talk, reluctant to bring the sins into the waking world and stain it. "You," he chokes, irreparably, has to continue, "you touching me, all... all over, and—"


"—and fucking me; getting inside me, holding me down. Filling me up until I can't breathe, leaving no room for anything else."


"Fuck, fuck. And biting me. Leaving more of those scars all over me." Dean opens his eyes and looks desperately up at the sky, begging it to make him feel irrelevant. It doesn't matter, they don't matter, these things he's saying—

Sam squirms closer, leaking scalding breath over Dean's throat. "I can do that, Dean. All that, whatever you want. Whatever you can take."

Sam is as insubstantial as him beneath the heavens. It's their human inclination to sin, it's their damn job. They're two bags of water and stardust trying to act like it matters.

Dean grabs Sam's face and pulls him in, in, in. It's ravenous, violent, as Dean lets go of his last few chains and lets himself drop down, down, down. The fires grab him hungrily, starved by the wait. Dean boils and lets Sam force him over onto his back, lets Sam sink his teeth in, lets them rut together and stoke the very fire that cooks them.

Past Sam's shoulder Dean sees nothing but the sky—when he's blanched and ruined, nothing has changed.

The stars still blink.