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"You're not serious."

Sam tries to school his expression into something less than full-on annoyance, because he understands. He really does. Oasis Plains will never be long enough ago for him, either. But he's been giving Dean the facts about this case for the last five minutes, and Dean's still looking at him like he's speaking a foreign language. So Sam nods, and tries again.

"Bees. Bees that induce—"

"A sexual frenzy. Yeah, I heard that part." Dean rubs the back of his neck. "And you think this is a case for us, why?"

"When was the last time you heard about someone being stung by a bee, and then dying when they couldn't get enough sex fast enough?"

Dean's quiet for a minute before scowling, and spitting out, "never."

"Right." Sam gathers up the clippings and his notes into a neat pile. "There've been five vics so far, and only two of them survived."

"So we gotta figure out why them and not the others." Dean sighs and pushes back from the table, then fumbles with gathering up their trash. Sam concentrates on finishing his iced tea and not looking at Dean's ass, and wonders for the fifty-billionth time why the attraction he had for his brother back when he was a teenager couldn't have gone away and stayed away.

"I think it's probably a witch, or something like that, controlling them," Sam says, once they're back in the Impala and on the road again. "We probably won't even have to mess with the bees."

"Possessed bees." Dean shakes his head, and glances sideways at Sam. "That's just never gonna not be weird."

Sam shrugs. "Not so different from Oasis Plains."

"That wasn't a spell, that was a curse." Dean pauses. "Still. Bees."


Conversation fades when Dean turns the volume up, and Sam lets himself drift, lulled into a doze by the motion of the car and a full belly from lunch earlier, and Dean singing softly with whatever it is playing on the radio.

He wakes when the car jolts beneath him, pulled out of a pleasant (too pleasant, his jeans feel a little tight) dream starring his brother, naked and panting beneath him.

Dean's actually swearing, cussing at the potholes in the road and their effect on the Impala's recently-rebuilt suspension.

"Fuckin' interstates, can't they fix 'em right?" He looks over. "Sleep well, princess?"

"Mrf." Sam shifts upright, rubbing at his eyes. "Where are we?"

"Passed through Charleston a little while ago. Nearly there, I think." Dean nods toward the interstate signs. "Got a plan for figuring out where to find the bees?"

"We could go talk to the survivor still in the hospital, be CDC reps."

"How's that going to get us in to talk to the survivor?"

Sam opens up the folder containing his notes, and reads down until he finds the comments he made for himself after his 'net research. "CDC monitors things like anaphylaxis, and all the victims showed signs of it. The ones who died didn't respond to standard treatment for anaphylactic shock, so it could be something the CDC would follow up on. Figure out why."

"Except we already know why." Dean grimaces. "Bees. Fucking possessed bees."

"You're not letting that go any time soon, are you?"

That gets him a Look, capital L and everything. "Any reason I should?" And Dean saying 'fucking' really shouldn't make him flush all over like it does.

Maybe all those times his brother tells him he needs to get laid isn't just Dean thinking with his dick. It might help. Couldn't hurt. Except for how it wouldn't be Dean.



"Focus, dude." Dean points at the sign, 'Hurricane, 5 miles'. "We'll find a motel, get changed, head for the hospital. It's local, right?"

"Yeah. Not a big one, but it's in town."


It doesn't take them long to figure out that Hurricane, West Virginia, might not be a one-horse town, but it's not much more than that.

There are only a couple of motels, and they end up in a small room at the Budget Inn, bumping shoulders as they put their ties on in front of the mirror.

The hospital is literally just up the road, and between their fake IDs and Dean's flirty smile to the woman at the front desk, it's not long before they've found out their third victim – and second survivor – is Ron Daily, who was discharged earlier in the day.

"Figures," Dean grumbles as they turn out of the parking lot and head for the trailer park at the west end of town where they were assured Ron lives.

Sam keeps quiet, because at this point anything he says is only going to make Dean more pissy than he already is. He's not surprised Ron was discharged from the hospital; it sounded like he was only there because of dehydration and for observation, and not for anaphylaxis like the first two, and victim number five. Which also makes him wonder – again – what was different for Ron, and for the fourth victim, who apparently survived but didn't need hospitalization at all.

The whole case is just weird, and not just because of the bees, or the sex factor.

Ron Daily is thirty-seven, works construction, and has a live-in girlfriend. He's happy to invite Sam and Dean into his home, to talk about his 'experience' over glasses of cold sweet tea.

"It was really weird," he says, playing with the condensation left on the table from his glass. "I've been stung by bees before, but never had nothing like that happen before."

"What did happen?" Sam asks, notepad and pen at the ready. Dean's busy watching Ron's girlfriend moving around the kitchen, and Sam kicks him under the table, mouthing focus, when Dean looks at him. He ignores Dean rolling his eyes in favor of listening to Ron.

"Well at first, nothing. Sarah and I were just taking a walk along the creek, looking at the leaves, enjoying the day. I felt the bee sting me – didn't even see the sucker 'til it got me – and that was that. But about an hour or so later, it was like someone poured liquid fire down my throat, I was burning up, just like that."

He flushes then, and Sam can see Sarah out of the corner of his eye, gone stiff and still. "So what happened next?" He asks, when it seems like Ron isn't going to say anything else.

"I had—" Ron stops, freezes in place when Sarah leans in and whispers something in his ear. The flush increases until he's roughly the color of a ripe tomato, and he doesn't unfreeze until Sarah's left the room. Ron clears his throat, looks from Sam to Dean, and back again, and says, "I thought I was going to die, I got so, so h-horny, all sudden, like. Like the worst case of blue balls you could imagine, just, bam."

Sam scribbles a couple of notes, and sees Dean doing the same thing. He has to smother a bark of laughter under a cough when he looks at Dean's pad, sees a stick figure with an exaggerated hard-on sticking out from it, bigger than the stick figure's legs.

"Um, go on?"

Ron looks down at the table. "Me an' Sarah had sex six times right there beside the creek. I couldn't wait—had to, right then." He looks up slowly. "Never happened like that before. I mean, that I couldn't wait. At least not since I got out of my teens." Ron glances around again, like he's making sure no one but the three of them are there, and drops his voice to barely more than a whisper. "It didn't end then, either. We got home, and I was ready to—to go again. Couple of times. And it felt like I wasn't ever gonna be able to stop; the last time it hurt to come, there wasn't nothing left in me, y'know?"

Sam nods and tries to give the guy a reassuring smile, but he's thinking holy shit, nine times? No wonder he went to the hospital for dehydration and exhaustion. From the expression on Dean's face, he's thinking pretty much the same thing.

They thank Ron for his time and for the tea, and make their way out of the trailer, leaving the poor guy to his embarrassment. He's nearly as red when they leave as he was telling his story, and when the door closes behind them, Dean lets out a long, low whistle.

"Nine times? No wonder three of 'em died. Guy's lucky he didn't."

"Yeah, but." Something isn't making sense, here. Sam flips through his notes while Dean gets them back on the road, finally finding the clipping about the second victim. "Okay, look. John Styiers—called 911 from his house. Said he'd been out working on his car, got stung, a few hours later was having trouble breathing and was feeling dizzy. No one was home but him, and he said he was alone when he got stung."

"What about the other two who died?"

"I'm looking, hang on." It's the last clipping in the folder, and Sam pulls it out, eyes scanning the text. "They were both alone, too, up until the point where they were taken to the hospital suffering, quote, symptoms associated with anaphylactic shock. End quote."

"But Daily was with his girlfriend." Dean pulls off on the side of the road. "So was the other survivor, right? He was with someone?"

"I think—yeah." Sam looks up at his brother. "That's it. The ones who got stung, who had someone right there with them, having sex saved their lives. The ones who were alone, or alone until it was too late—"

"Died." Dean scowls. "So now the question is: who were the intended victims? Were they all supposed to die, and two just got lucky, or what?"

Sam flips open the notepad he'd used while they were talking to Ron. "Ron said he got stung while they were hiking by a creek, right?"


"Call him and ask him what creek, and where they were hiking, wouldja?"

Sam half-listens while he stares at the notes about John Styiers, who lived near Hurricane Creek, a little ways up in the hills. He doesn't even need Dean to say the words; the look on his face when he ends the call is enough to confirm that Ron and Sarah had been hiking not far from where Styiers lived.

"The bees, and whoever's controlling them, have to be up in that area."

Dean nods and puts the car back in gear, easing it back onto the blacktop. "We can ask around in town, if there's someone keeping bees up around there."

"Let's change first. If we're gonna end up hiking around, I'd rather do it in jeans than in suits."

That gets him a smirk. "Glad you're not stating the obvious or anything."

Sam snorts out loud. "Bite me."

Dean's smirk changes, grows into a genuine smile, and it makes Sam aware of how much he's missed his brother smiling. "Not a fucking chance, dude."

Maybe after this case they'll take a little down-time, take a break from psychic kids and yellow-eyed demons. Go to a ballgame or something.


"Betsy Donoghue," Dean tells Sam when they meet back up in front of the old barber shop. "Her family raises bees, has a business selling honey, and their bee…farm…is up near where Styiers lived."

"Guess we're gonna go talk to Betsy," Sam murmurs.

"Looks like." Dean has his determined face on. "Fucking bees, man. Guess it was too much to hope we'd just be able to talk to her in town."

"If we can get her to break the spell, we still probably won't have to deal with the bees." I hope. At least the bees at Oasis Plains, though he'd easily had a dozen or more stings, hadn't been bees that could make him need to fuck himself to death. Or die if he didn't get fucked.

Dean looks at him over the roof of the Impala. "Is it ever that easy?"

"Guess not." Sam settles himself into the car, and sets to trying to figure out why someone would want to make a spell that made bees turn into fuck-or-die armed missiles. "All the victims were male," he says out loud, trying to talk his way through it. "Maybe someone who has a grudge against guys?"

"Or just one guy," Dean says. "Maybe she got fucked over, like a relationship gone bad, and thought she'd dish out a little retribution of her own." He makes some comment under his breath that sounds a lot like fucking witches, and turns off the blacktop onto a gravel road. "Goddammit. Gonna mess up the suspension."

"And the paint," Sam mutters, then turns to look out the window to avoid the death glare Dean shoots him.

His brother is really pretty hot when he's glaring.

Sam really, really needs to get laid.


Betsy Donoghue is all of five feet nothing, cute as a button, and just a couple weeks past her sixteenth birthday. She takes one look at Dean and Sam when they enter the small shop and ask about the bees, and bursts into tears.

'Awkward' doesn't even begin to describe the situation, and they have to wait a good five minutes for her to calm down enough to talk to them.

"It wasn't supposed to happen like it did," she tells them, twisting her fingers together nervously. "It, I was just tryin' to get Bobby Fennell to like me. He worked here last summer, and I just wanted…he was just supposed to want to, um. You know. Like me like, like a—."

"Girlfriend?" Sam asks gently. Betsy flushes and nods, eyes downcast. She misses Dean rolling his, looking skyward like he's thinking about praying. Or asking why me.

"But something went wrong. I said the words exactly the way they were written, but—it didn't work. At least it didn't seem like it worked. Bobby got stung, and he was lookin' right at me when it happened, but, nothing. He just slapped at the bee, and asked me if we had any cortisone cream, then went back to work." She starts crying again, big tears welling up and leaking down her cheeks. Sam has the insane urge to pat her back and say, "there, there", so he bites his lip. She wipes the tears away and sniffles. "I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt, honest! "

"We believe you," Sam says, flashing Dean a look. "But we need you to end the spell, Betsy."

"But I did," she says, sniffling some more. "Soon as it didn't work on Bobby, I burned the little bag the herbs were in, and threw the ashes down the toilet."

"Did you do the ritual ending?" Betsy gives him a blank look, and Dean heaves a sigh. "Some spells, when you're done with them, they're just done. But some of them have to formally ended, usually just a few words, or sometimes a counter-spell, to end it – like turning off a light, or tying a knot at the end of a piece of thread. Closing everything down."

"I didn't do anything like that."

Dean clears his throat. "Then you need to. We need to. We'll help, but it needs to be done now, before anyone else gets stung."

Sam's just about to open his mouth to agree when a tiny, sharp, localized pain jolts through his shoulder. He hears the buzz after the fact, angry and loud, echoing in his ears. Under that he hears Dean call his name, and turns instinctively toward his brother just as he gets stung a second time.

Later, when he can think logically about it, Sam will be glad he was looking at Dean and not Betsy. But all he can think for the moment is oh, shit.


Sam doesn't remember much about breaking the spell. He knows he was there, but the fever that started burning through him almost immediately – two stings, not just one – seemed to ratchet up a notch or ten with every minute that passed.

Dean stumbles through the incantation, and Betsy burns another bit of the herbs, and it's probably too much to hope that ending the spell will end its affect on him. He's aware of Dean glancing at him, and of Betsy peering curiously in his direction, but there isn't much he can do.

By the time they make it back to the motel Sam feels as though he's been dipped in fire. His skin is flushed, and his dick is hard, throbbing in time with his heart beat. His zipper is pressing painfully against his erection, and there's no way to sit comfortably. Even slouching and letting his legs fall open hurts – and presses the seam of his jeans harder against his balls, which are hot and swollen.

"Jesus," he manages through gritted teeth, when the car comes to a stop. As on edge as he is, he should've come by now, but no. Has to involve two people.

Has to involve the person he looked at right after he got stung.

His brother.

The brother he's been lusting after/in love with since he was fifteen, aching for even one touch and feeling sick with himself for wanting that.

Sam looks up, startled, when Dean raps on the window. "C'mon, Sammy. Clock's ticking down, dude." He's gone again then before Sam can respond, the door to the motel room swinging shut behind him.

Sam gets out slowly, body aching with lust and fever, mind trying to work through Dean's words. Does Dean mean they should have sex? It'd be like every dream Sam ever had come true…but he can't do that to Dean. Can't force him to have sex with his brother, even though everything inside of Sam is screaming for it.

He drags himself up to the door, partially wanting to push inside and slam Dean up against it and just drown himself in him; the other part of him wanting to be brave enough to turn tail and run, anaphylaxis be damned.

He doesn't want to die. Sam wants to live, to keep on hunting and saving lives; to kill the yellow-eyed demon who ruined his family. He wants…to keep loving his brother.

The door swings open just as Sam reaches for the knob, and Dean's there, eyes snapping fire. He grabs at Sam, pulling him into the room, and then it's Sam shoved back against the door, their weigh pushing it shut. Dean presses in close, closer, sparking the heat already flushing through Sam even higher. He groans when Dean rocks against him, fingers clenching around the fabric of Dean's t-shirt, and gets in one good thrust before pushing Dean away from him.

"No! Dean, Jesus, we can't—"

Dean growls and pushes back. "Not gonna let you die, Sam. Not when there's a way to stop it."

"It's not so bad. I could try going into town, find someone." His heart is hammering in his chest so loudly that Sam's surprised Dean can't hear it, too.

"You're so full of shit it's not funny." Dean hisses the words and moves in closer, pressing, reaching, and god, when he brushes his mouth across Sam's it's so good Sam can't believe he doesn't black out.

"I can't—you don't want this," Sam whispers, the words mixing up in the kiss. Dean tastes like cinnamon gum, hot and spicy-sweet, and hunger surges higher inside Sam, gnawing at him. "I know you don't want it. Dean—"

"So full of shit," Dean says again. "You're s'posed to be the smart one." He cups Sam's face in his hands, skin burning Sam's where they touch, and leans up to open his mouth against Sam's. "I want you, dumbass. Always have." Hot, wet, slick and soft, the kiss is Dean teasing Sam's tongue with his own, tasting, questing, learning.

Lust rises in Sam in pulsating waves, higher and higher, until it seems it has to crest or he'll explode with it. He grabs onto Dean and spins them, pins Dean against the door with his weight, with his extra height. Dean makes a sound like a whimper low in his throat, and Sam feels – hears – an answering growl rise in his.

"Gotta—Dean, I need, God it's like I'm burning up—" It's hard to get the words out, all Sam wants to do take. Take what's his.

"Do it. C'mon, Sammy, do it." Dean leans forward and nips at Sam's lower lip, a quick, sweet-sharp sting. He does it again, harder, and Sam feels something break loose inside him.

He can't get Dean's clothes off fast enough, tugging and pulling frantically, hands roaming over every inch of skin as it's exposed. Dean cries out when Sam pinches and pulls on his nipples, bringing them up to hard peaks that he has to taste, has to suck and bite until they're hot, swelling against his tongue.

He's grinding himself against Dean's thigh, dick throbbing, aching for more. Sam jerks at the waistband of Dean's jeans, fumbling with the snap until he can get it open. His fingers feel clumsy, awkward, when he tries to undo his, and then Dean's fingers are there helping, pulling the button out and spreading the fabric open. Dean reaches in to pull Sam's dick free of his shorts, and just that touch has Sam coming thick and warm, spattering over his stomach and Dean's hand.

"Jesus," Sam breathes, sagging against his brother. He hasn't softened; still feels feverishly hot, body aching with need. "Dean. Need more. So much more, please—"

"Yeah. Yeah, c'mon." Dean kisses him, fast and hard, and mutters, "want you to fuck me. Deep and hard. Wanna feel you."

God. Just the visuals are enough to make Sam throb in Dean's hand. He pulls back, reaching to skim his shirt up over his head, trying to get his jeans down at the same time.

"Get your clothes off," he says, then gets sidetracked when Dean does just that, taking his shirt off and shoving his jeans down, shorts and all.

Sam watches, mouth dry, as Dean settles himself on his stomach on the nearest bed, spreading his legs open in invitation. It's like every wet dream he's ever had, and it's all he can do not to throw himself down on Dean and just fuck into him.

Then Dean shifts up so he's on his knees, ass raised, and that's it. Any vestiges of control Sam still had are gone.

He's on Dean in the blink of an eye, no memory of shucking his jeans the rest of the way off, no awareness of anything beyond the demanding pulse of need inside him.

Sam palms Dean's ass, fingers gripping hard enough to leave marks, and spreads him open. Dean shivers and makes a low noise that becomes a keening cry when Sam leans in and licks, lapping at the tightly furled muscle. He traces the whorls over and over until Dean's moving under him, pushing back, begging with words that might make sense if Sam's brain was processing anything beyond need need need NEED.

He teases Dean with his tongue, scrapes with his teeth, then presses sucking kisses right on the loosening muscle. Dean groans when Sam slides one finger in alongside his tongue; the groan turns into a low, desperate sound when Sam adds a second finger, still circling the rim with the tip of his tongue.

"Fuck just do it, Sam, God," he says, voice hoarse and breathless. "Want it, please, need it, c'mon."

Sam spits into his hand and hopes it's going to be enough, because he can't stop. Just can't. He's never felt an ache like the one burning inside him, and if he doesn't bury himself inside Dean in the next two seconds he's going to spontaneously combust. He spits again and slicks it over himself, and knows there's something he needs to do, say, ask – something. He's forgetting something.

He looks down at Dean, at the pink, loosened muscle gleaming with spit, and then he's lining himself up, pressing forward into tight, welcoming heat while Dean pants and gasps beneath him, tensing slightly when Sam pushes on, trying to go slow but fighting the urge to just thrust in.

"I can't—can't go slow, I gotta, Dean, sorry, I just—" He cuts himself off when Dean shoves backward, impaling himself completely. "Jesus, fuck, Dean, god you feel good."

Dean says something that sounds like, "Unff," and squeezes tighter around Sam, making his eyes roll back as pleasure rockets through him. He grips tight onto Dean's hips and begins moving, slow thrusts that become faster, harder, more frantic. He's being consumed by the heat, by the way Dean's body takes him, holds him, pulls him back in over and over.

Sam comes hard, orgasm blindsiding him. He slams forward until it hurts, then keeps straining forward as liquid heat pulses out of him, desperate to fuck a little more, a little longer; needing Dean beneath him again and again.

He's still throbbing all over when Dean grunts, and Sam reaches down and around to grip Dean's dick, soft velvety skin over hard heat, tip slick and sticky with pre-come. He strokes a couple of times and Dean convulses beneath him, groaning as he spills over Sam's fingers. It's thick and warm, clinging to Sam's fingers, and he brings those fingers up to his mouth to lick them clean. Tasting Dean on his tongue is like a jolt of electricity through him, and his dick gives a twitch.

Sam's still trying to catch his breath when he rolls off Dean, needing a break and already wanting his brother again. Maybe still. He flops down beside Dean and shoves the you fucked up you shouldn't have done this he didn't really want it thoughts to the back of his mind.

"I can hear you angsting from over there, dude," Dean says, voice still rough. Sam rolls his head to look at him, shivering at how fucked-out he looks, muscles relaxed, eyes dark and hot. "Stop fucking up the afterglow."

"We have afterglow?" Sam can't look away from Dean's mouth, lips red and swollen from kisses and bites earlier. His torso is marked up, too; red blotches that will probably turn to bruises.

"We might have, but you're fucking with it." Dean's quiet for a minute, then asks, "How're you feeling? Did that—was that enough?"

Sam closes his eyes and tries to figure out what he's feeling. How he's feeling. He shakes his head after a moment. "No—it's. It's still there. I can feel it, kind of swirling through me. Growing." When he opens his eyes a moment later, Dean's right there in his face, eyes reflecting the heat Sam feels spreading through him again. "I don't want to—you shouldn't have to, um. I can't ask you. Again."

"You didn't ask me the first time," Dean says, and Sam feels his stomach drop, icy cold sweeping through him because fuck, he didn't.

"Dean, I—" Christ. What can he possibly say?

"Sam. Sam. Dude." Dean's still talking, but Sam doesn't hear anything over the voice screaming in his head that oh, God, he forced his brother—

Dean kisses him, hard and rough, tongue pressing in, sweeping through Sam's mouth. It's hot and wet, a messy, wonderful kiss that ends with Dean tugging on Sam's lower lip with his teeth before letting him go. Sam's not sure what he must look like to Dean, but Dean…he's gorgeous, skin flushed, eyes almost black with arousal, just a thin ring of green surrounding the pupil, mouth wet and red.

"Listen to me," Dean says, leaning in close enough to breathe the words against Sam's mouth, the barely-there stimulation making him shiver with want. "I wanted this. You didn't ask me because I offered. "


Dean shifts closer, speaking so low, a hoarse, ragged whisper of a voice, that Sam has to strain to hear him. "But nothing. Wanted it, still want it. So c'mon, quit holding back on me. Give it to me, Sammy. Want you."

Sam shudders and reaches for Dean, hands sliding on sweat-slicked skin. He leans in and licks at one nipple, then bites down and sucks until Dean groans and reaches for him. Sam reaches for his dick, fingers stroking lightly over sticky skin, Dean's dick starting to slowly fill. Back further, cupping Dean's balls and rolling them gently, feeling the heft and weight of them in his hand. Behind there, Dean's hot and slick, body giving easily when Sam slides two fingers in. He swallows Dean's groan; fucks in and out of his open, loose hole until Dean's arching and shifting to meet him. Sam shoves Dean's legs up and back, hooking them over his shoulders as he sheathes himself a second time, each thrust forward making fire burn through him.


The door clicking shut wakes Sam up, and he wonders how long it'll take before he stops waking up tired. Dean gives him a half-smile, half-frown as he steps forward with a bag in each hand. One contains several bottles of Gatorade; the other has several boxes of food that smell awesome and make Sam's stomach growl with hunger.

"Mexican place just up the road; I got you tamales and enchiladas, and got some chips and salsa too."

Dean's talking, but Sam's not really listening. Instead he's looking at the necklace of hickeys he left on Dean's throat. He left most of those during their fourth and fifth rounds; further down on Dean's chest are bite marks and some scratches. There're a couple of hickeys on the inside of Dean's left thigh, too, and Sam can still remember how Dean shifted and trembled when Sam sucked each ball into his mouth, one at a time, the wrinkled skin soft against his tongue.

Dean's mostly walking okay today; yesterday he had a noticeable hitch in his step – Sam doesn't want to think of it as a limp, exactly, though that's pretty much what it was.


He glances up and realizes he's been staring – really staring – for a couple of minutes. "Yeah?"

"You…okay? You don't need, I mean, the curse thing is done, right? All over?"

Sam smiles, though it slips and becomes a groan when he sits up to accept one of the bottles of Gatorade. He's really sore, too. "Yeah, pretty sure it's done. I don't feel like I'm burning up anymore."

"Good. Then get your pansy ass outta bed and come eat before this gets cold. You didn't eat anything yesterday, so you need to make an effort today."

"Or what?" But Sam's already pushing himself to his feet, uncapping the Gatorade as he goes. Dean made the first run for Gatorade yesterday, after it seemed like Sam's fuck-or-die curse was done.

It took almost two gallons of the stuff before he could piss even a little bit, and getting to his feet to do that had been agonizing. He's spent most of the last eighteen hours sleeping or drinking water or Gatorade, and doing very little else.

"There is no 'or'. There's just get your ass over here and eat." Dean's pulling plastic silverware out of the bag, and he freezes when Sam steps close and presses his thumb to one bruise. "Sammy," he breathes out, voice breathless.

"Thank you," Sam whispers, leaning in to kiss his brother. "For everything."

That gets him a lopsided smirk and a kiss. "Get yourself rehydrated, and we can do it some more."

Sam raises an eyebrow and downs half the bottle in one enormous gulp.

Goals are good things to have.