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and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall

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No one remembers how the fight started.

It might've been that little purple tank top with the short skirt, big tits, and predatory hands who set her sights on Sam. Or it might've been that farmboy athletic wonder with the bright blue gaze, full mouth and an aw-shucks grin who set his beer down next to Dean. It might've been the smoky air or the way the wind was outside or how everyone missed Sam watching Dean watching Sam.

Either way, no one remembers and when the dust settled at the bar, Little Miss Tank Top and Farmboy Wonder were dead next to each other, bullet hole between those tits, bullet hole between those blue eyes; the bartender was standing in broken glass and puddles of liquor, twisting a towel over and over in shock; and everyone else was crouched behind tables or had disappeared towards the bathrooms.

The two bruised strangers held guns on each other until the tall one broke, shoulders shaking, gun steady and said, Dean.

And with a brutal smirk and a bullet through the ceiling, Dean took off, Fuck you, Sammy, kicking the door as he dashed to the parking lot.

By the time Sam got out there, tripping over the bodies and tilted tables, Dean had hotwired a car and the taillights were blood-red, the tires throwing gravel and Sam smashed his way into the nearest car. The wires crossed, he gunned it and a passing car swerved, bounced around him into a telephone pole.

Sam chased Dean down, taught by his big brother how to drive, weaving between late night traffic, other headlights disappearing into the ditch left right with inhuman screeches in the dark, pinwheels of light cutting through the dust and sounds of wreckage.

They finally raced together along the tiny two lane road, as if Hell was the sound of two pushing engines and they couldn't get away fast enough, as if Dean and Sam couldn't take another second more being held back by gravity and physics and their anger. The cars were deep-throated and growling, like everything hazardous, cliffsides and high-speed corners, sheared metal and busted glass.

Dean hit his brakes in a burst of smoke and noise because he wasn’t going to be Sam’s prey, and Sam spun, streaking across all lines and boundaries, ignoring everything because he was going to capture Dean, whatever it took, ready to hunt his brother, biting his lip and he tasted his blood, not Dean's, his and it pissed him off.

No one remembers how the fight started, but back at the motel, Dean's hijacked car was buried in the corner room, resting like it had drunkenly reeled in there, collapsed there, too big to fit, the driver's side door crooked and open.

The Impala was gone. Dean's bags were gone.

Dean was gone.

So Sam aims to put his car into the back of Dean’s stolen one, but he misses, slams against the side, metal scraping metal and the front end crumples, windshield shattering like some sort of sick metaphor and Sam has to shoot out the back window and crawl out.

No one remembers how the fight started, but everyone remembers the night the two strangers held guns on each other, about to destroy the bar and ended up smashing cars into the motel, like monstrous children who didn't know their own strength.

The tall one frowned as he put a bullet in the first car and it didn’t explode, just sat there nestled in the debris, then he vanished with bags strapped to him as the fire trucks tipped around the corner.


Dean drives because he has to get Sam out of his head, his brother who burned his way into Dean, his brother who looks at him with those eyes, those amulet eyes, like everything Dean has ever needed, protection wards and red-hot brands and something to believe in.

His brother who pushes and pushes and pushes until Dean is dropped over the edge, hanging on as though he might die. Even though he won't, can't die, not when Sam's watching him, not when Sam's next to him, ribs pressed to Dean's, hands closed around Dean's wrists as he holds him down, holds him hard and fucks him, lets Dean fuck him with his head down, his back curved like vulnerability and his mouth open with sharp teeth.

Sam with his hair slicing shadows over his face, Sam with those long legs Dean measures with his tongue, Sam with his aim that always hits Dean in the heart and in the belly.

He drives because Sam is in his veins, he's had Sam's blood in his mouth and now it's all he can taste, like his body is calling up Sam with every mile Dean is speeding away, black on black on black.

Every piece of him feels reckless, careless, like he's committing suicide, like he's thrown himself over and the road is freefall, nothing but speed and a headlong rush into the ground and it's all Dean can do to keep the Impala out of the ditch, following the lines.

The shotgun seat's empty and he panics, what the hell is he doing, Sam out there without Dean, Sam with a loaded weapon that he knows how to use on himself, Sam is a loaded weapon and Dean wants him back.


He's angry, he's still angry, he's fucking murderous, remembers pulling a gun on Sam as Sam pulled a gun on him.

Though that gun in Sam’s hands, the look on his face, it was enough to make Dean beg under the right circumstances, beg for his brother’s talented cock and mouth and maybe, they’ll have to play this game again.

When Dean isn’t quite so homicidal as fuck.

His brain is shrieking hysterical (Sam Sam Sam Sam) and the tires hum higher as Dean speeds up.


Red and blue lights wash over Sam as he walks back into the bar parking lot, the scene of the crime, the shit-stain where Dean almost shot him and he almost shot Dean and right now, Sam sorta wishes Dean had shot him because it’d be preferable to this, a hole in his side bleeding out fast, the pain better than standing in the fucking parking lot where Dean fucking left his ass for whatever bullshit reason Sam can’t recall now.

The cops are standing around, talking to hollow-eyed witnesses, people who should be used to violence of some sort, they go to a motherfucking bar every night to drink their sins away and Sam knows what that’s like, that anchor in the middle of your chest dragging you down (once it looked like Dean’s amulet, now it looks like taillights) until you drink and the chains disappear and the anchor lifts and you know what you’re supposed to do.

Sam knows what he’s supposed to do. What he wants to do is smash this bar into tiny little splinters and then burn it all and piss on the flames. Then salt and burn whatever pile of shit is left over. Then piss on that too. What every inch of him is telling him to do is jump in a car and stalk Dean because somewhere out there in the thick night, somewhere out there just around 2 A.M., Dean’s driving like he’s just yanked himself off the rack and is fucking hightailing it to where the fuck ever.

So that’s what he’s going to do, his insides screaming because Dean’s out of sight, out of reach and the whole world’s gone fucking unnatural.

And Sam’s not going to lose his brother to those knives of roads, cutting them apart, looser and looser and Sam can already feel himself unraveling, hands clenching and unclenching, as Dean chooses another road, another blade to slice away and this isn’t supposed to happen, ever, it’s not even something Sam could’ve imagined.

He almost doesn’t know his own name, lost without the smirk that carves around his heart, each cocky line of Dean’s body that tastes like invincibility because Dean is every one of Sam’s instincts, what Dean says with his mouth and how he uses it, how he holds a gun and wants nothing but to make Sam lose his mind.

Baring his teeth, he shoots out the bar sign, a blaze of sparks he wishes Dean could see, and as everyone ducks for cover, the cops pulling guns like they’ve never done it before, he climbs into the car that looks like it’ll hit 90 and not rattle.

Then he puts the bar, the town, the bad movie set motel in his dust, furious that Dean would do this, furious that he let Dean do this, fucking pissed off that Dean’s not playing by the rules.

Maybe Dean wants him insanely angry when Sam finds him, so Sam can fuck him into the ground.


Sam’s phone rings while he’s smiling at the girl behind the counter and she shakes off a shuddery feeling, something about him just plain wrong, his eyes a bit too bright, like he hasn’t slept, an odd curl to his smile, like he’s forgotten how. Or he’s been driving too long, hopped up on coffee. Or he’s had a breakdown, like her uncle did a few years ago at a birthday party and she decides she’ll call the cops if he so much as rolls his eyes.

He doesn’t answer the phone, simply walks back out to the car that in the sunlight turns out to be brown and cruises down to Room 106.

So, bitch, you think you can get away with the shit you pulled? Yeah, I’m giving you a chance to think about what you did and how you’re going to fucking fix it. Preferably by sucking my cock and then if that’s satisfactory, we’ll move on to something else. So you just call when you’re ready to put that mouth to good use. Then we’ll see who fucks who, Sammy.

Dean’s voice pours out into the dingy orange motel room and Sam prowls around the bed, glaring at the phone on the striped comforter.

I know you’re there, Sam. Don’t do anything stupid, got it? I don’t wanna hafta kill you because you went and did some stupid shit. Again.

If Dean were here, Sam’d beat him bloody, then lick his wounds until Dean was shaking and crying underneath him.


The bottle is warm in his hand and so is the machete. Dean’s set up a drinking game of sorts, involving the TV and the weapons. He drinks every time there’s a dancing inanimate object, drinks every time he starts cleaning a weapon, drinks every time he finishes cleaning a weapon. And no, when he accidentally cut three of his fingers, he didn’t think of Sam, even when he watched the blood rise out of the gashes, when he put his fingers in his mouth, when he wiped the rest of the blood on his jeans.

At the bar, another motherfucking bar full of sonsuvbitches, he meets a succubus, all curves and tits, about as far from Sam as is still humanly possible and she’s drawing people to her like flies.

Dean’s the lucky winner, of course, he usually is, especially with Sam (always with Sam) and he isn’t going to fuck her, but he does kill her and he lets out a breath because he feels better and he lets out a breath because dammit all to hell, Sam isn’t here to share this, to celebrate, to swear he’s going to fuck Dean when they get back to the motel, then can’t wait until they even get to the car.

And fuck, Dean’s already at the motel, alone, with gross succubus blood everywhere and he notices he’s got a voicemail.

Hey, asshole, I don’t know why you ran off like a little whiny bitch, because I didn’t do anything, it was all you. Hell hath no fury, huh, Dean? Yeah, that makes you the woman. I know you miss me, I know you want my ass and my mouth and my cock. So just stop pretending, that’s what you’re good at, stop pretending and admit you fucked up and we’ll be fine. I’m smarter than you, I’d be surprised if you could even feed yourself without me there.

Sam, voice pushed to those depths that make Dean squirm and Dean’s alone in a puddle of blood that isn’t his, isn’t Sam’s and he almost vomits right there.

You left me a knife, Dean, any ideas how I should use it?

And Dean’s saying yes yes yes to the empty room as his cock grows heavy in his jeans.


Fuck it, there’s only one place for Sam to go.

Bobby answers the door, beer in hand, and Sam is so relieved, he trips, falls over the threshold and ends up on hands and knees.

Sam, hey kid, you ok? Bottle hastily set aside, Bobby’s there, helping Sam stand and his face crumples underneath his cap. Sam? You got blood all over you. What happened?

Shaking his head, Sam can’t talk yet, tell him about the werewolves he ran across at the border into South Dakota. Two of them, like joyriders, like wanted felons, running free and feverish, taking hearts as if it were as easy as breaking and entering. Sam wanted Dean there, wanted to laugh with Dean, because the werewolves’ attitude was hilarious, so damn perfect, because Sam and Dean were the real fucking wanted felons, the real fucking joyriders and every day of their lives was like a crime in progress. But the werewolves attacked him, shitty move, damn shame, after Sam had perched on the trunk of his stolen car and watched them transform, licking at each other in pure moonbeam happiness, high temperature giddiness and while he was busy shooting them full of silver, Sam couldn’t help it; he missed Dean so fucking much, wanted him next to him so they could lick at each other too, transform into how they were in the dark, all laughter and snapping teeth and territoriality.

Where’s Dean? Sam, look at me, kid, c’mon, Sam, look at me.

That tone should never be in Bobby’s voice, that note of pleading, so Sam tries.

Hey Bobby.

Boy, what did you get yourself into? And where the hell is Dean?

He drove off, just drove away, Sam says, his body feeling so heavy and he thinks he’ll break the chair Bobby steers him to, he thinks it’ll just snap under his weight when he flops down.

Bobby’s cap moves in and out of Sam’s vision. He left you somewhere?

Yeah, the fucker left me in Colorado, of all places.

It’s too cold in Colorado. Especially without Dean. Sam hates the state now.

Bobby asks, When was this? There’s a bottle of whiskey steady in front of his face and Sam’s grateful, knew it was right to come here. Bobby’s good. The last good.

Three days ago, he says and fails to mention he’s wanted to demolish every single day, but he can’t seem to find enough gasoline.

Bobby curses under his breath and shifts, like he’s nervous, but Sam’s never seen Bobby nervous, what’s he got to be nervous about? Sam’s the one who was left in a shitty parking lot, for fuck’s sake. Left to stagger around without his bones and his blood and his eyes and every piece of himself that’s stitched into Dean. Like walking around after back alley open heart surgery.

All right, c’mon, I’ll make some calls, see if I can’t find him, Bobby says, tugging on the whiskey, but Sam doesn’t let go, it’s keeping him warm, so Bobby pulls on his shoulder instead. Think you could translate something for me while you’re here?

Bobby’s good, Bobby’s going to help, the last good, so Sam lets himself be led to the couch, books and whiskey settled around him.

It’s later, when the whiskey’s insulating him and Sam’s got a knife in his hands that he relaxes a little. He feels jumpy, uncertain, as if black shadows are about to melt out of the walls, like what he saw in Hell, and he thinks about the werewolves, their eyes lit up insane, blood on their mouths and all he wants is Dean, his cock needy, his chest aching.

This is Sam’s favorite knife which means it’s Dean’s because it’s the one Sam likes to use on him, likes to use to cut throats and stab hearts.

Pressing the knifepoint to his wrist, Sam draws a spiral cut down and around his forearm, red oozing in the circular pattern to his elbow and he stops there, at the exposed skin where his veins converge.

He’ll save that area for Dean. Whenever Sam gets him back. Because this is worse than Hell. And Sam got him back from Hell. So Dean has to come back to Sam.


Switching hands, Sam likes how the knife pushes against his skin, then pierces it and it stings.


Bobby stands in the doorway, watching Sam cut his arms and it’s excruciating.

Sam is unraveling right before his eyes, more than he’s ever seen before in a human, more than he’s ever seen in a Winchester, their dad included.

Each flash of the blade is another piece of timber thrown on a pile, and Sam’s building the pyre pretty high, ready to burn down the world, because that’s what it’d deserve.

He’d go down without a sound, Bobby’s sure of it.

And Bobby wouldn’t be able to stop him.

As much as he wants to help Sam.

These boys are killing him, how they came back all crushed and distorted into each other, as if Hell was a soldering iron and they’re welded by blood, by something else Bobby will never understand.

He’ll help them, even if it takes everything else from him.

Fumbling for a minute, he finds his phone and presses the speed dial for Dean.

Then Bobby holds his breath.


The phone rings and Dean’s smooth-talking the Impala up 84 85 86 87 through Kansas. He heard about the werewolves, how they’d been taken out swiftly and easily and then the bodies had been burnt, along with an old shack on the edge of the town.

And it sounded familiar. It sounded like Sam. All that fire. Dean hopes it was Sam, hopes he took down two werewolves on his own, all long-limbed strength and trigger-finger ease.

Then his phone rings and it’s not Sam, it’s Bobby and Dean hits the brakes, his body going heavy, his vision going dark.

Hey Dean.

Hey Bobby. You run out of beer yet?

Uh, no, son, no. But I got someone here who could do with a beer run.

Dean skitters to the side of the road and stops. Sam’s there?

Yeah, your brother’s here. Bobby breathes, slow. And Dean, I.


I think it’d be best if you came here and got him.

The steering wheel is hot, so fucking hot and sweaty when Dean rests his forehead there.

Is that Dean?

Sam in the background, words slurred, his name in Sam’s voice cracked, like it’s a foreign language.

Bobby replies, muffled, and then Sam’s there, his voice dark, Dean, you asshole, you gonna come back? You think you’re gonna come back and crawl on your knees for me? Cut yourself wide open and bloody for me? You left me in a fucking parking lot, you fucker, you left me.

Dean stammers, can’t seem to stop, because his anger’s gone, it’s abandoned him somewhere back with the succubus’s cold body, but he still has to swing out in a fight he can’t even see.

Fuck you, sonuvabitch. Bullshit. That bar, Sam, you—

You left me. Just like Hell, Dean, when you left me for Hell. And what happened then? Huh, motherfucker, what fucking happened then?

There’s a noise on the other end, Bobby’s house hundreds of miles away, like Sam’s fighting Bobby for something, maybe for Dean and Dean’s talking before he can hear himself, out somewhere on the side of the road, alone and shaking like a fucking leaf in the middle of an end-of-the-world tornado.

You got me, Sam, you came and got me. Sam, Sammy.

Dean, Bobby says, You stopping by?, and suddenly, Dean tastes blood.

Yeah, Bobby, I’ll be there in a few hours.

You show up here, you look for my knife, Dean, I’ll be waiting. Sam’s tone is fucking pitch-black, like every shadow Dean’s ever shot at, every evil thing he’s dispatched, every thick night he’s been surrounded by and didn’t think about how it might be the end.


Bobby considers spiking Sam’s newest liquor bottle, drugging him to sleep, but Sam watches his movements, tight intensity and fighter-bright gaze, so he just sits down at his desk with books in front of him and lets Sam pace aimlessly.

He ignores it as Sam mutters to himself, clicking bullets in his hands as if they were dice.

He hears Dean, he hears blood, he hears beg and Sam’s knuckles are white.

Carefully, Bobby takes the precaution not to glance at the clock or make it look like he’s keeping an eye on Sam.

Waiting is the worst abuse. And with every minute, Sam is morphing into a torturer.

The bullets click and click and click.


There’s no point in being quiet; the Impala isn’t built for quiet and Dean’s never been one for sneaking around. Fuck it, he’s going to have a big splashy neon sign blinking that he’s here to reclaim his brother, teach him who’s the predator and who’s the prey, remind him of how Sam moans for whatever Dean chooses out of the goodness of his heart to give him.

Sam already knows. And Dean’s a cruel bastard when he wants to play.

So when Sam steps out on the porch, he’s ready to play.


Dean, deadly smirk and deadlier eyes, leaning against the demon-shine of the Impala, legs stretched out lazy as if he’s a hellhound here to fetch Sam, just waiting for his chance to gnaw on whatever he can reach.

Sam’s not going to be a chew toy, not right now, not until he gets Dean on his motherfucking knees and makes him open that cocksucking mouth, put Sam’s name and cock in it and Dean will swallow it all down, like a good boy.

Bobby’s in the shadows and Dean waves, easy as pie and sunshine, Hey there, Bobby, I hope he hasn’t driven you up the wall. He has a tendency to do that.

Hands in his pockets, Bobby clears his throat, about to invite everyone in for a nice cold calming beer, but Sam interrupts, bags on his shoulder, sliding the bullets into a clip.

Thanks, man, I appreciate it. Sorry if I drank all your whiskey. I owe you. We’ll see you ‘round, ok?

This is not what’s supposed to happen and Bobby’s brain freezes. He’s supposed to help them, not. Not.

No, wait, Sam, you—

We’ll call.

Then Sam’s striding down to the car, to his brother, snapping the clip in the gun and Dean’s smirk grows into a vicious smile as Sam tosses the bags in the backseat.

Get in and drive, asshole.

You’re being rude, Sam, the man is—

The last good. The only good. You really want me to do this in front of him? Sam’s a wall of darkness, even in the black of the night; the razor-wire words slice and Bobby winces.

Shrugging, Dean saunters around to the driver’s side. Guess we’ll be seein’ you.

Dean, you can’t just—

The engine roars and they’re gone.

Bobby drags a hand over his eyes.


They ride through the night, on into a thunderstorm that interrupts dawn.

Sam’s jittering, knees bouncing, because he’s with Dean again, he’s with Dean who left him and he’s so relieved, so pissed off, he wants to fight or fuck or kill something or maybe all three at once, wants to see Dean in pain, in pleasure, in sheer shit-your-pants terror.

Dean shoots him looks, shoots him smirks, fingers tapping on the steering wheel and he whistles brightly, like it’s a Disney moment, the birds fucking singing in the fucking trees, the woodland creatures fucking dancing in some fucking forest clearing with happy fucking smiles on their little woodland creature faces.

And then it almost is, because Dean spots the knife spirals on Sam’s arms and forgets the last four days and says, Sammy, in a voice blown away, nuclear bomb shockwave.

Like ‘em? They’re for you, Sam says, pushing his sleeves up higher. Pull over.

Out in the middle of nowhere, for all they know they’ve dropped off the face of the earth, can only see the storm, the road, the car, each other, and the tires crunch as Dean slides the car to a stop in a quick flicking spin.

Before Dean can reach for him, Sam’s out of the car, tall in the rain, soaked and the heat coming off him almost makes the air shimmer around him.

C’mon, Dean, wanna see ‘em? Come look.

When he gets close enough, Sam punches him, a right hook to the jaw that drops Dean and he stares dizzy up at the sky as Sam laughs mirthlessly.


No weapons, other than themselves.

They fight, thunder caging them in, and they’re brutal and ruthless, sadistic and masochistic, because they want more, they need more, the last four days like no other they’ve spent apart, not that hazy time of Sam in college, not those bonfire months of Dean in Hell, the last four days tearing them in strips and they piece each other together with bruises as stitches and blood to bring them back from the dead.

They fight, nothing like how they’ve fought before, vengeful and jealous, the rain cold on their skin like revenge.

Sam hitting Dean until he stops breathing for a minute. Dean pummeling Sam down to his knees, as if Sam’s begging up at him.

Then it resets and it’s happening, looping and looping.

They fight, dirty tricks and sprays of blood and absolute dominating ownership.

Until Dean kicks Sam’s legs out from under him and pins him, fingers closed around the red spirals and when he pushes his weight into Sam, his brother goes limp.


What, Sammy.

It was almost like Hell, all over again, Sam says, turning his head, water making the blood on his cheek race over his skin in crazy twisting trails.

Dean shifts off of Sam, resting his forehead on Sam’s temple and traces the cuts that go from Sam’s wrists to his elbows.

Thunder and he says, I wish I could’ve tasted these, and Sam whimpers, his eyes squeezing shut.


No one remembers how the fight started. No one knows how lucky they are that the fight ended.

Bobby does and he can’t sleep.

Eventually, he decides to call.


The motel clerk is all welcoming happy smiles until Sam smiles back and then he shrinks a little, makes sure he doesn’t touch them when he hands over the key to their room and forgets to tell them the vending machines are out of order; instead, he scuttles back to his television, out of sight and hopefully, out of mind, and doesn’t hear when Dean says something about the lobby decor.

It’s somewhere on the other side of 4 A.M. and Dean kicks the door shut before Sam’s on him, possessive tongue and teeth, greedy knife slicing open Dean’s shirt, which he otherwise would’ve cared about except that Sam’s eyes are challenging him and Dean doesn’t fucking back down from a challenge.


Sam licks Dean’s wounds, waits until Dean’s shaking at each drag of his tongue and then tells him about the werewolves, what it was like, how it reminded him of them, Sam and Dean.

Dean tells Sam what he can do with his knife, where he can use it on Dean’s body and Sam smiles, that grin that blazes like a pyro’s fantasy, then slowly draws spirals from Dean’s wrists to his elbows.


Dean’s sliding his cock into his brother (back curved like inevitability and his mouth open with Dean’s blood) when a phone rings and Sam grabs at one, flinging it across the room, but the ringing is still going, Dean laughing with his cock inside Sam, his body stretched along Sam’s, as Sam finds the other phone and then it’s smashing against the wall.

Silence, then Sam pushes back onto Dean and fuck if that’s not an embarrassing sound coming from Dean, all needy and craving.

They slam together, the only way to mend each other to break each other, force surrender and take as much as they want.

Every fucking last breath.


It’s not cuddling if you’re tangled together and you can’t tell which limbs are yours and which ones aren’t.

Don't you ever fucking do that again, bitch.

Me? It was you, Dean, you jackass, you started it.

I don't do stupid shit like that. Musta been you.

You pull stupid stunts like that all the fucking time, jerk. It was you.

Nah, I'm pretty sure it was you, Sammy, only you could do something so royally fucked-up.

Dean smirks. Sam grins.

Oh yeah? I think I feel a bet coming on.

Name the terms.

Sam thinks. Dean takes the time to prick Sam’s thumb and put it in his mouth.

Can it involve a cop car?

Anything you want, princess.

When Sam laughs, throwing his head back, Dean puts his teeth there on Sam's throat, tasting his territory.