The day Jess told Sam she was pregnant was the same day he was accepted into Stanford with a full ride to law school. She didn't know that yet, of course, because she'd texted him with just the words great news! and Sam, who had been hoping against hope when she missed her first period, had known instantly—like lightning to the gut—that his dreams were all coming true at once. His life couldn't have looked brighter.

There was no way for him to know that, in less than six years, his future would look so dark it would be as if a thundercloud obscured it completely, leaving only bleakness and grief in its wake.

Sam's sitting on the closed lid of the toilet seat in just one more of the anonymous motels that have populated his life for as long as he can remember. There have been apartments, sometimes, and even the occasional month or two spent squatting in abandoned houses—Sam remembers a particularly vivid experience with one of those, when they chose to hole up in the haunted house they were investigating—but Sam actually does like the motels best, because even though they're usually run-down and dirty, at least they don't give him the illusion of 'home' any more—when he was a child, he'd thought that every apartment would be the last one, this time they'd settle down and stay in one place, but John always had other plans.

Sam winces and shifts, which results in Dean tightening the grip of his fingers on Sam's bare thigh. Their last hunt—the one they've just returned from—went sour hours ago, leaving Sam in the mud bleeding profusely from a deep gash in his thigh while Dean—forced to leave him there because Sam has always been stubborn, and because he usually gives in to Sam eventually—went to look for John, who had given them a gesture to circle round, and then disappeared.

Dean came back without John, and hauled Sam to his feet, both of them hobbling back to the Impala as Sam's leg refused to hold his weight. Sam had asked, where's Dad? and Dean had shaken his head. He hadn't replied.

Dean shoved Sam into the backseat of the Impala and wrapped above the wound to create a tourniquet, clearly wishing it weren't so dark and so dangerous to stay there, because Sam had known Dean wanted to stitch up the wound then and there, but Sam had refused, anyway. Go find Dad.

They both knew they couldn't leave John in the woods with a predator, no matter how good a hunter he was; Sam and Dean were along on this hunt simply because it was too dangerous for one hunter on his lonesome, even one as excellent as John. He hadn't wanted to bring Sam, of course—you never follow my orders!—and Sam hadn't wanted to go—You know how much I hate hunting, anyway!—but Dean had, as usual, pointed out, with firm and quiet logic, that three of them were much better odds.

Eventually John stumbled back to the Impala, muttering and holding his arm, which was bleeding, and in a sudden flash of moonlight as the clouds parted for a moment, they could see the bruises scattered liberally across his face, but he just hoisted himself into his truck, which left Dean to rub one thumb over Sam's jeans—cut open to expose the injury—and it brushed for just a second over his bare skin, the fleeting reassurance that Dean would never let anything happen to him, and then they drove back to the motel, following John's taillights in the dark.

Sam was officially too big for Dean to carry, at eighteen years old and six foot three inches. John had proven that even in his anger and disappointment, he still cared about Sam, helping Dean get him into the room.

Which is where he is now, sweat clammy on his skin as he tries to sit still, a bottle of whiskey in one hand—fingers growing slack from too much drink—and Dean on the edge of the tub, forehead furrowed and eyes narrowed in concentration as he pierces Sam's skin over and over with the needle, tiny, impossibly neat stitches to close the wound.

Sam leans his head back and sweats, droplets of it streaking into his eyes, every so often swilling from the bottle to try and deaden the pain. Dean had tried to numb the area with ice before he started, but the injury is long and the edges jagged, which means that long ago the pain seeped back in and flared to almost unbearable levels, but he keeps his eyes closed now, breathing sharp and laboured, and tries not to let on how much it hurts, because Dean will feel guilty.

Sam wants to look down at the damage, high up on his inner thigh, sure it's going to scar—he lost his first girlfriend at sixteen when he took his shirt off once, and she saw the healing scars on his back from a recent hunt. Those have faded into almost complete obscurity now, but it was enough at the time to scare her away.

Sam wonders if any girl will ever want him, covered with the memories of past hunts, the physical evidence of his hard life etched directly into his skin.

Sam's cock is covered only by a towel so that Dean has enough room to work, and Dean's hand is hot on his thigh, scorching his skin and Sam sits there, perspiration running down over his chest and body, and even though he's in pain and Dean—his brother—is only inches away, the contact of another person's hand besides his own that close is enough to spin arousal out through his body, to harden his cock just a little. He catches his lower lip in his teeth and pictures the last time he saw his father naked, which pretty effectively kills the physical reaction, and then Dean pats his other thigh, huffs out a breath.

Sam opens his eyes and Dean's looking up at him from between his thighs, his lashes long and shadowy on his cheeks, his lips chewed-on from the intense concentration of the last half-hour or so.

"All done," Dean says, and his voice is rough from shouting earlier. "I don't think it will scar too badly."

Dean grabs another towel and mops some of the sweat from the hollow of Sam's throat. He finishes up and holds the towel out to Sam.

"Can't shower yet," he says, as he gets ready to put the dressing on. "Have to settle for wiping yourself down, little brother," and Sam nods, can't quite speak through a liquor-thickened throat, and finishes the last of the bottle. He knows, objectively, that they couldn't have taken him to a hospital, but he does, at times, wish they could—wishes he didn't have to rely on Dean.

Not because he doesn't trust Dean or because Dean doesn't do a good job—he's the best of the three of them at stitching someone up—but because sometimes he doesn't want Dean to have to; it's unfair that his older brother never seems to be able to put himself first in anything.

Sam sighs and attempts to scrub away the sweat that is a thin sheet over his skin.

"Thanks," he says, forcing the words out. Dean nods, and grabs Sam as he starts to tip sideways, the consequence of too much whiskey and too much pain, and Dean winds up being the one to nudge his legs into his sweatpants, to help him to his feet and Sam barely manages to grab the waistband Dean holds out to him and yank it up over his slender hips. Dean helps him into bed and bundles him up under the covers, giving him some painkillers to swallow, and then Dean's gone, presumably to sleep on the cot beside the bed; John's in the room next to theirs.

He falls asleep thinking about the gorgeous Stanford campus, and how it's only a matter of weeks before he can escape this life, get away from the injuries and the pain and the darkness.

Stanford is a beacon of his new life, shining brightly into a life that has always been fraught with darkness without the benefit of night-lights.

September 2001

Jessica Moore was in one of Sam's core requirement classes when they first met. It was a math course that Sam no longer remembers what was taught, but he does remember staring at the back of her head—gorgeous blonde curls tumbling down her back—and being horribly irritated by her at first because she understood all of the concepts before anyone else and seemed, at the time, to love showing off how much she knew.

It wasn't until later that Sam would wind up bumping into her on his walk back to his dorm, only to discover that she had a certain shyness about her that contrasted sharply with the self-confidence that rolled off of her in waves. She'd smiled and held out her hand and said,

"I'm Jess." She'd paused while he stood there, so enraptured by how damn beautiful she was that he forgot to shake her hand, and then went on, slightly more peeved sounding and maybe just a little bit discomfited, "I'm sorry I monopolised the class. My dad likes to hear about how very involved I am."

The way she said it made Sam think maybe she was just as annoyed as he had been. Suddenly, as if the switch back to 'on' had been thrown in his brain, he reached for her hand just as she was withdrawing it. He couldn't imagine why she'd even be talking to him—she was so unattainably beautiful and he was so large and generally clumsy; scarred and uncertain of himself and his place in this new world that he was still learning all the rules of. He hadn't realised normal could also be so hard.

But she took his hand and instead of shaking it, she held it loosely in hers, and she had strong, slender fingers, and she was nearly as tall as he was, which was remarkable.

"I'm Sam," he said, and it was so freeing to give her his real name, to not be hiding out behind some alias Dean had picked out—the thoughts of Dean still caught him up when he stumbled over them in his brain, but he concentrated on the clean lines of her features, the blonde hair he found himself wanting to run his fingers through.

"Meet me for coffee after your last class," she said, and it didn't really sound like an invitation, more like a command. "And it was nice to meet you, Sam," she added, before pulling her hand back and walking away. But she looked back, and she smiled.

Sam was, quite predictably, disastrously in love with her already.

Jess's laugh was as pretty as the rest of her, and she was so blissfully free with it, as though she'd never known darkness. She took her coffee black and she spent most of the evening trying to convince him to try it—this coffee is so good you don't need to add anything to it!—but she also talked a lot about herself and her passions for books and art.

Sam was content to soak up anything she wanted to say. It might've been noble to say that he was content simply because he liked her enough that her easy and engaging prattle didn't come across as self-centred and that he found it just that: engaging. The truth lay in more murky areas, however: Sam didn't have to think of lies to tell her about himself as long as she kept talking cheerfully, patting the back of his hand every so often and gifting him with blinding smiles.

God, he was so infatuated!

"My favourite book has to be The Princess and the Goblin," Jess said. "It's this totally awesome adult fairy tale. My copy is so battered by now!"

"Mine is a short story," Sam returned. "'The Legend of Sleepy Hollow'." It was the first real lie that he told her—he hated that story, because ever since he'd read it (and Dean had wanted to read it too, so he could laugh at Sam), Dean had been suggesting they go and check it out and find out if they could solve the mystery of the Headless Horseman. But Sam was in California now, sitting across a café table with a beautiful girl—the type that usually only had eyes for Dean—and he didn't want to think about hunts, or hunting. He didn't know why he lied—there was no reason to, what could she possibly get from the truth?

But he watched her grin, her kissable lips—he wanted to kiss her so badly!—turning up at the corners, and he smiled back, nervously, because he still wasn't comfortable around girls. That was Dean's arena—and Sam had never felt so alone before, without Dean standing next to him, or sleeping in the same room, or breathing the same air.

It was both the most exhilarating freedom he had ever known, and it was terrifying. He wished that Dean were next to him so that he could whisper what to say to this scintillating girl who seemed to have all the self-confidence in the world—why had she chosen him? But Sam knew perfectly well that if Dean were sitting in the same room with Jess, she'd never have given him a second look. Girls—once they saw Dean—never really did notice Sam after that.

It wouldn't be the last lie, though.

"I should have guessed something like that," she said. "You look like the type of guy who likes to scare himself silly on ghost stories. And then jumps at every little noise afterward."

How close and yet how far from the truth. He hated ghost stories, and at nine years old when the .45 had been in his wavering hands, pointed at the closet, he had jumped at every single frightening noise.

But at eighteen, he wasn't afraid any more. Searching out dead things and ghosts and monsters was something he was so used to, he wasn't sure anything scared him any more. Well, except for clowns.

And Dean dying, of course. He would never lose that sickening thrill that rushed through him on a hunt when Dean was in danger. But she didn't know that. And he wasn't going to tell her.

"I read the most terrifying book once," Sam confided. This, at least, was true. Partially. He had read the book, and he could admit that it would be terrifying to most people. For him, it landed in the realm of 'mildly scary', simply because neither he nor Dean had ever come up against a demon before. Sam wasn't sure, but he didn't think their father had, either. So who knew if they really existed? "It was a true story," he carried on. "This family moved into a house and found themselves right in the centre of a demonic possession. Gruesome and, you know, not the sort of thing anyone wants to think about."

Jess leaned in, so close her breath feathered across his face. "I think I read that book," she said in a low, conspiratorial tone. "Were there inappropriate things done to dead bodies?"

Sam stared at her, then laughed, sudden and unexpected. Would this girl never stop surprising him? He rather hoped not.

"Yeah," he said, and she positively twinkled. Her eyes crinkled at the corners and she sat back, and Sam missed the warmth of her coffee-bitter breath.

"See, you and I are alike," she said. "I knew it when I first saw you. You just hated that I knew more about that stuff in class than you did, didn't you? D'you watch horror movies?"

Stupid Dean and his stupid obsession—"Yes," Sam replied. Dean loved to watch them, especially the gory bloody ones, but in a pinch any would do. Sam still had no idea why Dean would want his real life to also be a part of his entertainment, but he'd spent his formative years watching whatever Dean did, because Dean felt that the remote automatically went to whoever was older. Which was typical Dean.

Sam tried not to think about the fact that he had had such a case of hero worship for Dean back then that he would have watched them anyway, simply because he wanted to do whatever Dean did, like whatever Dean liked.

But then Sam had grown up, and Dean liked hunting—which Sam didn't. Which was why he was with Jess now. Because Jess was the fresh air into the staleness of his life, the very thing he had been missing.

He looked at her, and he wanted her. And it seemed like she wanted him too. 6:32 p.m. and Sam decided right then and there he was going to ask her out—a real date. It was 6:32 p.m. on the beautiful, sun-still-shining-outside evening of September 3rd, and Sam would remember that moment for the rest of his life, preserved in his memory like an insect in amber, crystal clear. He fell in love her for no other reason than she smiled at him for him and she liked horror movies, and she was beautiful—but it wasn't the beauty on that outside that made him fall for her.

6:32 p.m., and he blurted, "Can I take you back to my room?" and nearly shot himself in the foot—tempting as the idea was, all of his guns and knives were still stashed in his room—because that sounded like a booty call more than an innocent invitation, but she smiled and crossed her arms.

"Sure," she said. "Why not?"

Sam stood up, and Jess did too. And then she reached over and took his hand, just for a moment. "I trust you," she said. "I know you're not just gonna try to get into my panties. Even if they are pink and lacy."

Sam nearly spat out the last of his coffee. This girl... somehow Sam knew she would always be full of surprises.

"Sam," Jess said, three weeks into the semester and about two and half weeks after they'd met. "You really should wash that hoodie."

Sam stared at her for a minute, then almost backed up a step when she came closer and patted the sweatshirt right over his belly. He was so used to wearing his clothes until they could hunt on their own if they wanted to—his family'd had so little money, and it was just more frugal, plus they rarely had the time—that it hadn't occurred to him that spending a lot of time around regular people, normal people, meant he had to try and blend in better.

Once upon a time, in the type of fairy tale where the hero gets eaten by the dragon and the princess turns out to be the wicked witch, Sam had known how to behave around normal people. But that had been emulation, and he'd lost the ability somewhere between puberty and now.

She poked him in the belly. "Sam? Have I got your attention?"

"It's my favourite," he said lamely. "I just... I forgot to wash it last time I did laundry." He didn't tell her—couldn't—that the last time he'd done laundry had been in a laundromat in Arizona, long before he'd left for Stanford. He didn't tell her, either, that he had so few clothes he had to wear them over and over or he'd lose a fortune in quarters.

"All right, c'mon, Sam," she said, pulling on his sweatshirt, dragging it away from his belly. He had the insane notion that she might just tear it over his head to get him to wash it. He grabbed for it and she laughed. "We're gonna wash this, and your other stuff, too," she said. "I bet those jeans haven't seen the inside of a washing machine since July."

"I wash my clothes," he said defensively, but she just chuckled again.

"I mean it, Sam. Go get your laundry and we'll go down together."

Sam might, if he were crude like Dean, have voiced that joke that formed in his mind after she said that. But he wasn't Dean—he liked to think he had more class, more tact, than his older brother.

But even though he'd always been the one to pry information out of people in such a way that they didn't even know they were doing it, he was still the one that, when pressed, blended in best with everyone around him.

At least until he'd come to Stanford, that is, when he realised that college students were a breed all their own, and he still sometimes felt like the prey being scented by the predator—even though he was used to being the hunter, on the Stanford campus he sometimes had a feeling of vertigo, like he was the one being hunted.

Jess whacked him on the shoulder. "Sam, hey, you know you are one giant space cadet sometimes?" but she said it fondly, as if she were already used to his quirks and found them endearing. Sam wondered how long it would take for her to get sick of them—he was pretty sure some things he did, like clipping his fingernails on the bed instead of the bathroom, would make her crazy.

And it was then he figured out that he wasn't just in love with her in that sort of objective, idealistic sense, but that he wanted her to say she was his girlfriend, and they still barely even knew each other—even though she was pretty much the only friend he had. She was the one person who kept seeking him out, seemed to like him even though he was a little weird.

He realised all of a sudden that he'd been staring at her lips while he was thinking, completely up in the clouds, and she was still watching him patiently.

"Uh, sorry," he said finally. "I just..."

"Someday you'll have to tell me what it's like inside that freaky brain of yours," she said, and it sounded so much like something Dean would say that a sharp pain pierced his chest, like a crossbow arrow breaking the skin and embedding itself into his heart. Obviously he'd never been hit in the heart—he'd be dead—but he had had a crossbow arrow graze his arm once, and man, that was painful.

"I'll go get my laundry," he said, reaching for the thread of the conversation they'd been having.

"You okay?" she asked. "You look like—well, for a minute there you looked like someone had just kicked your puppy."

"I never had a puppy," he said, the stupid, senseless remark slipping out before he could stop it. Not only was it obvious she hadn't meant to be literal, but he hadn't meant to let something out that was so much raw truth. And, being Jess, she pounced on what he'd said immediately.

"Didn't you?" she said, looking sympathetic. "Why not?"

Another day, another lie, he thought dejectedly. "My father was allergic," he said, trying, as he always did, not to mention that he had a brother. It felt somehow like a betrayal to talk about Dean to this girl, though why that was, he had no idea.

"That's too bad," she said. "My puppy was the best thing ever, till she died. God, I cried for a week. But then again, I was seven, so you know. We didn't get another one, though; I could never quite get over the feeling that it would be like replacing my best friend."

Sam winced and thought about Dean for the second time in about two minutes. Jess was... well, obviously she was different, because Sam wanted to kiss her stupid so often, and he'd certainly never felt that way about Dean, but... well, she did sometimes feel like the person trying to fill the Dean-shaped hole inside of him.

He'd thought that leaving, putting that life behind him, would've made not thinking about Dean easier, but even though Dean hadn't said good-bye, Sam still couldn't quite sever that connection he felt with his older brother.

"I'll meet you in ten minutes," Jess said, patting his bicep. "Don't forget," she added, because—Sam could tell—she was getting used to Sam acting kind of strange, drifting off in the middle of conversations and losing track of time.

In any event, thirteen minutes later—Sam's rebellion about being punctual resurfacing even though he wasn't even doing it consciously—Sam carried his duffle down to the laundry room in the dorm, a jingle of quarters in his pocket and his few articles of clothing stuffed into it. He'd had to take out his best knife and the small gun he'd kept, but hopefully there wasn't anything incriminating in his duffle any more. It had been green once, a sort of bright green like Dean's eyes, but that had been a long time ago and it had that look of army green now, due to dirt and use and the occasional bloodstain, which he hoped Jess wouldn't notice.

"Wow, I thought you'd forgotten," Jess said when he got there. She was sitting up on the counter by the washers, her feet dangling, her calves exposed by the skirt she was wearing, and Sam kind of wanted to lean down and lick the tiny mole he could see on her left leg.

"It took me a little while longer than I expected to gather everything up," he said, which was another partial lie: he'd actual spent most of the time hiding his weapons and turning his duffle inside out to make sure it didn't look like someone kept guns and knives in it.

He had a familiarity and competence with the washers that only took a second for Jess to remark on.

"I pretty much figured you'd never done laundry before this semester," she said, swinging one foot. She raised her hand to push her hair out of her face, and a pretty sapphire ring sparkled on her right hand. It reminded Sam of another ring, beaten silver metal, dinged from always being worn and being worn in the midst of battles.

"I uh, haven't," he said, which was the truth but sounded like a lie, and Sam could, in fact, see the irony in the fact that he could lie imperceptibly, but telling the truth sounded suspicious.

"But..." she trailed off and her pretty brow furrowed a little. "I had some trouble the first time I used those," she said. "But it's like you know exactly how they work, even though the kind that require quarters never behave quite like they should."

"Do you—" he couldn't believe he didn't know yet "—live in this building too?"

"Jesus, Sammy," she said. "You didn't know that?"

He snapped back at her without thinking: "Don't call me that." He didn't know why she had, and he knew that it bothered him because it dragged up childhood memories, but he didn't know why it mattered so much.

"Sorry," she said, easily jumping down from the counter and coming over to him, hand on his forearm. "I'm sorry, Sam. I was just teasing."

He felt pretty shitty about biting her head off, because she was still the only friend he had, and she was lovely and so giving that she didn't deserve all of his crap and issues.

"No," he countered. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't've yelled at you."

She watched him stuff the quarters into the slot, then fill the washer with just the right amount of clothes a temperamental dorm washer could handle. She leaned her head against his shoulder blade, and Sam wanted to turn and kiss her, but they hadn't taken that step yet, and though she seemed amenable, he couldn't quite leap off that ledge yet. He was still too caught up by the idea that only Dean could be attractive to girls; that he had only his stupid geeky brain to recommend him and he hadn't met a girl yet that found that hot over a ripped body.

And Jess once again made him feel like she could read his mind, because she said, "Sam, you have the most amazing ab muscles. I meant to tell you before."

He couldn't dispute that, actually; he'd done so much core training and other training that his body was in the best shape it could be, even after three weeks where his only exercise was done in his room at five in the morning. He knew, from watching some of the other college boys as they played sports, that he was in much better shape than they were.

But he had the scars they didn't have, and that made him reluctant, cautious; made him leery of Jess, even. Despite the fact that she seemed to think he was cute, even though he knew it wasn't true.

"You're totally an enigma," she said against his back. "I mean, who has only two pairs of jeans? You gotta have more clothes than that, Sam." Sam shrugged; he'd never considered it odd to have so few possessions—they moved around too much and had to pack too quickly too often for them to have too many things to keep track of. It was enough trouble to make sure none of the weapons went missing or got left behind, which would be a very bad thing. Jess snuggled a little closer for a second and said: "C'mon, I'll take you up to my room. It's on the twelfth floor. I think it's haunted," she said cheerfully, and pulled away from him.

He missed the feel of her immediately, but his brain latched on to her comment.

"Haunted?" he asked, and she nodded. Well, that changed everything. He couldn't very well leave her in a room that might have an angry ghost.

"Seriously, Sam, I don't know why you're so hyped up about this ghost. I mean, I know some people get a thrill, but you're practically vibrating with nerves, which is so not the same thing. And anyway, it's kind of neat. It's not that it's ever done anything. Except stare at me in the shower."

"Just tell me anything you can about it," Sam replied urgently. "Has it touched anything? Does it unnerve you? Wait, it watches you in the shower?"

Jess gave a laugh that sounded a little bit nervous, like she didn't know what to make of this new, much more focused and intense Sam. "Yeah, sometimes when I get out, I'll be looking in the mirror while I'm still in my towel and the skin on my neck will crawl, you know? And I'll look up and I'll see a glimpse of something—a guy, I'm pretty sure—giving me this weird, really intent look. And then I turn around and there's no-one there."

"Is that the only time you've ever seen him? How often does this happen?"

"Jesus, Sam, it's like you're getting off on a ghost story." She laughed again. "I'm pretty sure ghosts aren't real and this is just all in my head, anyway."

"Humour me." He didn't know what had happened to his ability to be less obvious with his line of questioning, but Jess living in a room that was haunted made him anxious in ways he hadn't thought possible. Anxious like he got around Dean when Dean might be in danger.

"It's only happened a couple of times. And I was kinda drunk the night before. I swear, Sam, it's nothing. Relax."

"Yeah, probably just nothing," Sam agreed, but his mind was whirring into overtime. Somehow he had to deal with the ghost without Jess finding out about it. Without her figuring out that he had secrets she didn't know about and couldn't understand—and worse, she enjoyed his company so much that he'd have to be really cold and abrupt, probably, to keep her out of it long enough for him to take care of it.

"Don't get drunk for a few days," Sam said, even though he knew she was just as likely to see the ghost again when she was sober, even though it'd only appeared before when she thought her mind was impaired. Probably she was just a little hung-over and thought she could blame it on her overactive imagination. "Has anyone else in your suite seen it?"

"I don't know," she said slowly. "I don't think so."

Sam ground his teeth a little. He was going to have to talk to her roommates and hope they didn't say anything to Jess.

"Listen," he said. "I have this huge project I've gotta get done; I might be really busy for the next several days. If I don't get a chance to see you—" he leaned down and gave her a quick hug "—I'll miss you, and I'll make it up to you, all right?"

"All right, but, Sam—" she said, as he was turning away. He looked back at her, and she was twisting the sapphire ring she wore around on her finger. "Don't do anything stupid, okay?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said uneasily.

"Ghosts aren't real, Sam. Don't go thrill-seeking by looking for this one."

"If ghosts aren't real, then it wouldn't matter, right?"

"Sam," she said, and she walked over to him, brushed a lock of too-long hair out of his eyes, "you'll get in a shitload of trouble if you're sneaking around my suite and the girls catch you."

Sam stared at her. "We're in college, Jess. It's not like it's a nunnery."

"Unless you're using the Shakespearean definition," Jess cracked, then sighed noisily. "Look, Candice thinks you're kind of weird, and you make her nervous. She still rags on me for being with you all the time. You'd totally make her freak out."

Sam felt his brow furrow as he digested the information. Figured, even at Stanford everyone thought he was a freak.

Jess must have sensed his negative thoughts, because she hurried on to add: "She's just nuts, Sam. If she took the time to get to know you she'd understand that you're not weird. Really."

Sam studied her face, memorising her features, this girl who seemed to see the best in him, who didn't see all of the myriad flaws. He wanted to believe her, but he knew that he was a freak. It woke him up sometimes at night, a feeling of wrongness, like he wasn't quite like everyone else—and he wasn't, he knew that. He was a fucking hunter, for Christ's sake. And no amount of trying to cosy up to her friends—or the other kids at Stanford—was going to remove the taint of 'freak' he'd worn since he was just a stupid kid.

But for some reason Jess seemed to look beyond that. He didn't know why, but he was so grateful to her. She made him feel like no-one else ever had, unless you included the fact that Dean didn't care about any of it either. But Dean was his older brother: he took it as a personal crusade to stand up for Sam. So Jess... she was so special.

He'd only known her a few weeks and he already wanted to be with her forever.

It only took Sam five minutes of Googling the history of the dorm they lived in to find something promising—well, if by 'promising' you meant 'suspicious yet useful'.

Jess's suite was the last one on the twelfth floor to be completed, and according to the article he was looking at, there'd been an accident—one of the plumbers had slipped and fallen, split his head open, and died before anyone could find him and call 911. Sam sighed. He'd been so certain that travelling all of those miles away from his old life would give him the chance to start over, but it looked like it was following him wherever he went.

He couldn't find any more information on the accident—at least, not without breaking into old school records, which he might have to do later—and the ghost seemed pretty harmless overall, in terms of the fact that it wasn't a suicide, murder, or otherwise especially violent death, but that didn't mean Leonard Fiotta, the plumber, wouldn't turn dangerous simply from being trapped in limbo so long.

Sam kicked the leg of his desk and glared at his laptop as if doing that would somehow change the facts. But nothing changed, of course; he was still going to have to research and find out where the guy was buried, then somehow salt and burn the bones without anyone noticing—and it was about fifty times more important he didn't get caught this time, because the last thing the kids at Stanford needed was to add 'grave desecration' to his list of faults.

Sam searched the county records online, but it figured, Leonard Fiotta's was sealed for some reason.

So Sam did some more digging—searching the guy's background more closely. What he found made him bite his lower lip and clench his teeth together until his jaw ached. He'd had any number of handyman-type jobs before he'd settled on plumbing, and he'd been fired more than once for 'unsavoury behaviour' or similar vague statements, except, of course, for the police report.

Sam found that almost by accident; it was supposed to be in a locked file somewhere but a comment to the guestbook on his business's old webpage linked to a scanned copy.

And way down, under the reason why the police report was filed, was scrawled: sexual misconduct.

Sam groaned and searched for the police station, breaking into their files easily enough and poking around until he found the rest of the report, which read:

Suspect was apprehended in the victim's home, his pants open, exposing himself to the victim. She gave a statement that claimed she'd caught him spying on her and engaging in lewd acts while in her home, ostensibly to solve a plumbing issue with her shower. Suspect claimed he'd been using the toilet and that nothing had happened. Victim vehement that he had been staring at her while she was changing in her bedroom. She filed charges which were later dropped when the suspect was vouched for by his boss. Victim made numerous further complaints, all documented, but was later shown to be in the profession of stripper and it was unknown whether her account of the events could be trusted. Case closed with the determination that it was a situation of 'he said', 'she said' and there was no way to substantiate the allegations.

Which meant that this guy, haunting Jess's bathroom, was a grade-A, first-class perv, and Sam couldn't stand the thought of him perving on her, of all people. He had to do something about it. He considered—just for a split second—calling Dean and asking his brother to come out to Stanford and take care of it, but that smacked of expecting Dean to fight every battle for him. And it meant reaching out to someone who hadn't even said good-bye when Sam had left, choosing instead to side with their father, which still rankled hard.

Besides which, he didn't even know if Dean would answer his phone. Hell, if he even had the same number, considering how often they switched cell phones to keep under the radar.

Sam hated knowing he was stuck for it. He hadn't wanted to be a part of that world any more; didn't want to call himself a hunter still and keep resolving gigs like they'd used to do. He was also a little uneasy it might go sour fast and he wouldn't have any backup, but he knew he couldn't call Dean, and hell, he definitely couldn't ask his father for help.

As Sam started packing his duffle with lighter fluid, matches, salt, and assorted other items, he thought about how he didn't even know if Dean's loyalty ran deep enough to talk to Sam without telling their father he'd done so. Which was not a chance that Sam could take.

He put on his most comfortable walking shoes—one of two pairs of shoes he owned—and set off to find out where Leonard Fiotta was buried.

Sam snuck into the picturesque graveyard with his duffle slung over one shoulder and the shovel under his armpit, a little bit cold—probably due to nerves—and poked around until he found the grave.

He hadn't spoken to any of Jess's suitemates, so he couldn't even corroborate her story, but he wasn't gonna let this guy gets his jollies off—even after death—for one more night if he could help it.

When he found the grave, he dumped his duffle on the ground—adding more dirt to the canvas—and began to dig. It took a quarter of an hour to go down about half a foot—God, he was so used to having Dean's help digging graves—and he started to wonder if he'd come out too late, if he'd get caught out at dawn still digging. He felt in his pocket one more time to make sure the fake ID was there in case he got caught, and his cell phone in case it went badly with the ghost, and continued digging.

When he finally uncovered the wooden coffin, he was sopping wet with sweat, pouring into his eyes and making them sting unbearably, and just as he was about to break the rotting wood open, he felt a cool breeze pass over him, stirring the hairs on the back of his neck.

Fuck.

Most ghosts don't like it when someone tries to put them to rest, and the more violent or depraved they are, the more likely they'll try to kick your ass. Sam figured he was about to get a bruising he couldn't explain—and that would probably disappoint and piss off Jess—so he broke through the wood cover with his shovel as fast as he could, fumbled with the lighter fluid, scattered an entire thing of salt, and then stood there, feeling the wind whip up worse and worse as he tried to get the match lit.

And just as it flared to life, the wind blew in a foul-smelling, frigid breath over Sam and his match and it went out.

Something slammed into him from behind, and he went tumbling ass over head, knocking the breath out of him, and he blinked through sweat and grave dirt and started scrabbling around for the matches.

Just as the ghost's fury lifted him up and tossed him again, this time sending his knee sprawling hard against a tree branch—tearing out the knee of his best jeans and taking a good chunk of skin with it—Sam's fingers closed on a lighter someone must have lost and left behind. He wrapped his fingers around it to hide it, and crawled, excruciating pain in his knee, back over to the grave.

He wished Dean were there so hard in the next moment, when the ghost pitched him headfirst straight into the grave, coating the front of Sam's khaki jacket with salt and accelerant, and making it too dangerous for him to light the bones aflame without getting out of the grave. Besides which, his head had cracked against the wooden plank and Sam was pretty sure that he was going to have a giant knot on his forehead come morning. He only hoped, as he scrambled back out of the grave as fast as he could, that his bangs would cover it up so Jess didn't ask questions.

It didn't occur to him to find it strange that in a moment of extreme duress, he thought of Dean first, and then the girl he was falling for, and he didn't really have time for that thought, anyway, as he flicked the lighter.

It wouldn't catch. Sam'd thought someone had lost it, but he was beginning to despair that someone had instead thrown it away because it was empty, as he listened hard for any sound that might signify the ghost's next plan of attack.

His head throbbing, his knee throbbing just as much in time, and blood running down the inside of his jeans, Sam finally got it lit, only to feel a force ram into the back of his knees like a rubber band snapping back into place, sending him reeling headfirst back into the dirt. The soft, moist dirt he'd turned up from the grave smothered the flame and once more, Sam wished for Dean. Hell, even his dad. Someone else to be there to light up the grave while he was getting battered by the ghost.

It was really starting to piss him off, actually, because he was good at this, he'd learned from the very best and he'd been trained since he was nine years old. He was too fucking good for some lame, garden-variety angry spirit to get the best of him.

He inched forward on his elbows and discovered he was just at the edge of the hole he'd dug. Fumbling with the lighter again, he managed to get it lit a second time and threw it over and into the grave just as the wind was whipping up around his head again.

He rolled and rolled again, trying to get out of the way to make sure that none of it rebounded on him and set his jacket alight.

He heard the hiss and rush of air, the popping of the flames as they caught, and the wind disappeared immediately.

It took him less time to fill in the grave again once the bones had burned thoroughly, and he limped back to his dorm at 4:53 a.m., which meant the whole thing took way longer than it would have with the assistance of his brother.

He was a mess when he got back to his room. His jeans were bloodstained and basically ruined. His hair was matted with sweat and dirt and blood where he'd gotten knocked in the head—upon closer inspection in his hand mirror, he found that the bump on his head had been broken open when he hit it and had bled all over everything, including into his eye.

The clean-up and first-aid again flashed him back to hunts he'd been on with Dean, like one of the last ones they'd been on as a family, when Dean had stitched up his thigh.

He poked and prodded at the lump on his head and concluded that it didn't need stitches—thank goodness—and cleaning up his knee proved it was a large scrape but shallow, so some antiseptic and bandages and a shower and he'd be fine. There was a large bruise on it, suggesting he'd banged it hard enough that the joint might be sore for a few days, but still, he'd be fine.

Still, though, as he washed the sweat and dirt and blood out of his hair, he missed having Dean there to check him over and make sure everything was all right.

And just before he went to sleep, he could hear Dean's admonishments about concussions, so he set the alarm on his phone to go off every hour and wake him up, just to be sure. There was no way he could go to the infirmary and explain what had happened in order to have someone check him out to see if he had a concussion.

He slept so late that he missed all of his morning classes, but he couldn't angst over it because when he woke he ached from head to foot and figured the sleep had been good for him. He thought about trying to find some clean clothes to cover his nakedness so he could track down Jess, but after only moving a little and lifting his head about two inches off the pillow—during which time he nearly threw up all over himself—he realised he was too beat up to see her.

Luckily he'd prepared her in advance, though he couldn't help thinking how nice it would be for someone to bring him aspirin or ibuprofen, and maybe some soup or something, to help him feel more like a human again.

He groaned and closed his eyes again. As he drifted, he thought he could almost hear Dean's voice.

"Wow, you look like hell," Jess said the next time she saw him, which was about three days after he salted and burned the ghost that had been haunting her suite.

Sam shrugged as if it didn't matter and kept his head lowered so that his hair, always too long anyway, would better obscure the healing bump on his head. But he imagined he did, in fact, fit her assessment perfectly.

"The project I was working on was more trouble than I expected," he said. "I didn't sleep much." He hadn't, either; waking himself up every hour that first day had been sheer hell, as he'd just wanted to drop unconscious for about two days and hope that when he finally got up, he wouldn't be so sore. Jess patted him sympathetically on the shoulder and Sam suppressed a wince; he hadn't even thought he'd hurt his shoulder until she touched it and it was tender.

"Hey, stop by my room after class," she said. "You could use some relaxation after all that hard work."

Sam gave her a tight smile—she really had no idea how right she was.

He linked their fingers together for a moment, walking backwards away from her down the street towards his next class, their fingers slowly untwining as he drew away from her.

But even after she turned around and started jogging so she wouldn't be late, he found himself standing and staring at her blonde curls as they bounced over her back. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the slight burn left over from exertion, and realised he was falling out of shape, even with his light exercise.

As he finally turned 'round and started running for his own class—a vaguely stupid thing to do, since his knee protested every jarring step—the rest of his body felt the impact, and he wished for one of Dean's massages, the feel of his hands as he worked the knots and pain out of Sam's body after a hunt. It had always been such classic first-aid care, and Sam had never thought anything of it, until now; Jess's eyes had been lit from within like she was planning something, and Sam suspected he was about to be subjected to another massage.

But a massage from Jess... that was a totally different animal. That was likely to lead to things Sam still wasn't sure he was prepared for—like showing her his naked back.

He gulped and kept running, but every step sent more shockwaves through him, and he was slightly ashamed that some of them went straight to his dick.

"Hey, Sammy, you look peaked," Dean says when they get back to the motel room they've booked just long enough to deal with a simple haunting on the way to a bigger, more intricate job. They've been standing in the rain digging a grave for hours, and it wasn't the easiest thing to do to burn bones with water sluicing down over them in fucking waterfalls.

"Dad says he'll meet up with us in the next town," Dean adds, grabbing a washcloth from the towel rack and running it under warm water. He wipes at the blood under Sam's eye where a twig gashed up his face, then smiles at Sam, that tight smile that's meant to be reassuring but still holds all the tenseness of Dean's worry in the tautness of his lips.

The Impala's been Dean's for just over five weeks now, since he turned nineteen and John decided they could deal with more hunts at a time this way. Which means they're closeted in the only room they could afford in this shitty town, one bed and a fucking crappy, sagging couch by the wall, and Sam already knows that Dean's going to sleep by the door tonight, his sleeping bag retrieved from the Impala and unrolled already.

"Dean," Sam says, gripping his wrist and yanking it away from his face. "You don't have to do that; I can do it myself." Sam's been looking forward to his fifteenth birthday forever, it feels like, and having Dean do everything for him like he's still seven years old is wearing his patience thin like old paper.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean mutters by rote, easily shaking Sam off and swiping his thumb across the open wound. "Don't think it'll scar, little brother."

Sam's been sitting on the edge of the bathtub, but he gets up and ducks out of Dean's way, almost as tall as his brother now. "I'm just gonna pass out," he tells Dean. "But, dude, you really don't need to sleep on the fuckin' floor."

"Language," Dean admonishes, but they both know he's only doing it because he ought to—because John would, if he were around. If he noticed. Sam hates the fact that his father probably wouldn't have noticed, which makes it Dean's job to care, even though he really doesn't. Dean's been saying 'fuck' in front of Sam since he was practically a baby, anyway.

Dean pats at Sam's cheek once more before Sam gets out of range, then pulls the container of salt from his duffle and starts laying out the salt lines in front of the door and the double windows. Sam gets his own out of his bag and takes care of the bathroom window, then takes a piss with the door half-open so he can make sure Dean doesn't drop from exhaustion—his brother's been under crazy stress this hunt and he's still taking care of Sam first, instead of himself—and brushes his teeth before stripping out of his still soaking-wet t-shirt and jeans. His boxer-briefs are mostly dry, so he figures they'll do for sleeping in; he flushes and leaves the bathroom.

Dean's standing at the window, looking out at the horizon, which is brightening with a line of silvery pink. It'll be dawn soon, but they don't have anywhere to be and the room is paid for two days, so they can just sleep for as long as they like—a luxury they don't often get, especially when John is around.

Sam flops down onto the double bed, face-first into the pillow. He's almost asleep when the mattress dips and Dean starts to rub his shoulders, loosening the tension and easing his muscles. Sam moans with appreciation and lets the feeling soak into him, sleep beckoning with dulcet tones, and Dean very carefully massages away every last bit of stress from Sam's back and shoulders, leaving him lax and pliant. His brother says something, but Sam is too far gone to make out the words, and then the weight's gone from the mattress and Sam's pretty much down for the count.

He wakes up to streaming sunshine as it falls towards the horizon again, and Dean singing badly in the shower, his body still liquid and the pain of the previous night only a memory.

Sam checks the salt lines while still in his underwear, then pushes open the bathroom door and steps into the steambath it's become since Dean's been in there.

"What do you want to get for breakfast?" he asks the vague shape that his brother has become through the shower curtain.

"Saw a diner on the way here while you were drowsing in the car," Dean yells over the pounding water. There's a beat of silence where Sam wonders if he caught his brother whacking it in the shower—wouldn't be the first time, and that was fucking traumatic—before Dean turns the faucets off. "Saved you some hot water," he says.

Sam doubts it. "Dude, I'm getting out," Dean adds after a second.

Sam takes the hint and leaves the bathroom, but he finds himself pacing as he waits for Dean to dress.

It's not his first introduction to Dean's massages, not by a long shot, but he can't help a little frisson of unease that won't go away.

That odd feeling of discontent ratchets up a few notches when Dean comes out of the bathroom and his eyes flick down for just a second. And even though Sam's been in various stages of undress around his brother for his entire life, he feels suddenly on display, like he's completely naked in a room full of people.

He forces himself not to grab for his chest to cover himself up, and Dean's rambling on, as usual, even though Sam hasn't been paying attention; he bolts for the bathroom and shuts the door.

And immediately feels like an idiot. Of course, Dean was probably just checking him out for injuries while he was conveniently under-dressed, and Sam just feels weird about it because he's going through puberty.

Of course, that thought reminds Sam of his body and the changes it's going through, and as if someone flipped a switch, Sam's hard, his dick pushing out the front of his underwear—and Dean's right outside the door, mumbling to himself as he gets ready for breakfast, and Sam's never really had the courage to get himself off unless Dean's out, but in spite of the horrific awkwardness churning in his belly, Sam kind of wants to.

He calls out, "I'm taking a shower!" and turns on the cold water, rendering whether Dean saved him any hot water moot.

The cold water does the trick and douses his arousal, but it can't do anything about that persistent prickle of unease.

Sam has no idea what's causing it—and he won't find out 'til he's almost twice the age he is now.

By the time Sam got to Jess's room—he took the stairs because he figured he could use the exercise to stay in shape, even though his knee said fuck you on every step—he was so anxious to see her it was ridiculous. After the implication of more intimacy between them, Sam just couldn't stand the anxiety of waiting to see her again. He'd been thinking about it to the exclusion of everything else all day, which had wreaked merry havoc with his attention span. His notebooks were filled with pieces of notes he'd never completed because suddenly the thought of Jess would intrude and he'd wind up scrawling her name down instead.

She opened the door in a skin-tight tank top with printed monkeys all over it, a pale blue that set off her colouring to perfection, and little bikini panties that matched, the sides nothing more than a thin bit of elastic. And when he opened his mouth to speak, she reached up and placed her middle finger on his bottom lip, and instinctively he licked it, found it delicious, and sucked it into his mouth. It was the most overtly sexual thing they'd done yet, and Sam was a little disappointed he hadn't even kissed her before, but what could only be the flavour of her body filled his mouth and his eyes widened.

She gave him a wicked little grin that turned her beautiful lips up and he clasped her wrist and pulled her finger from his mouth, gave her a second to see the intent in his eyes, and then ducked his head down a little—it was amazing, he barely had to bend over at all—and licked the swell of her lower lip before connecting their mouths for the first time. He didn't do anything at first besides touch her lips, learning the feel of them—soft and giving against his—but Jess moved first, parting her lips a little under his, and Sam sighed in-between them, felt his breath slide into her mouth, hot and mingled with hers, and then went for bold; he dipped his tongue into her mouth and tasted, felt the smooth, silken inside of her cheeks, ran the tip of it along her teeth before allowing himself to touch his tongue to hers.

Jess made a little noise in her throat which spiralled right through Sam's body and took up residence in his dick, then moved her tongue with his, and even though Sam had no doubt that she wasn't all that experienced, she was still in so many ways more adventurous than he was; her tongue was brutal in his mouth, taking and taking what she wanted, brooking no quarter.

Sam was outclassed already; he'd never learned to kiss with much finesse, but Jess had it and she had it in spades; she took inventory of his mouth and Sam felt as though she'd branded him permanently, like she'd own that little piece of him forever, like his lips would never forget the shape of hers under them.

And then, it was over, and Jess was smiling beatifically, like she'd just hung the moon and swallowed the canary all at once.

"God, Sam," she said, breathless and panting. "I wondered how long I'd have to wait for you to do that. What I'd have to do."

He hadn't even realised, so wrapped up in their mouths dancing together, that he'd slipped his arms around her and her chest was smushed up against his.

Or that it meant his dick, hard and stretching his denim, was up against her bare thigh. He jumped back away from her, shocked by his forwardness. He'd never so easily lost his sense of himself the way he did when he was around her.

"Jesus, Sam, you think too much," she said. "I've been wanting you to kiss me since almost the first day we met."

"But—"

"Don't take yourself so seriously," she interjected. "You have the promise of so much self-confidence, the ability to be someone so totally amazing, but you just keep holding yourself back. I want you to unleash that part of yourself that craves—I want you to learn what you desire and learn how to go after it."

"I can't," Sam argued, even though when she put it like that, he wanted to stop hiding and just... God, he didn't even know. Just touch her, glom onto her and never let her go, whatever. "You're the amazing one," he said, and it was the sort of thing Dean would smacked him upside the head for saying, which made him turn away bashfully, unable to look at her any more.

"You're so stupidly sweet," she said fondly. "I wanna get coffee later, but first, I want you to watch one of my favourite movies. It's awesome, like this murder mystery with all kinds of dark family secrets and stuff."

Sam willed his dick to behave itself and finally stepped over the threshold. Jess grabbed his arm and towed him into her room, over to her bed, and pushed him down on it. She plopped herself down next to him, and punched the 'on' button for the DVD player.

Sam couldn't really concentrate on the movie because she was so close, and she smelled heavenly plus she was still only half-dressed. Sam took a risk and cuddled closer, letting his hand hang over her shoulder and just brush the top of her breast where it swelled over the neckline of the tank.

He should've paid closer attention to the movie, though, because it held clues to the rest of his life, though he didn't know it yet.

Sam still had a handful of fake IDs hanging around from back when he spent all his time with Dean—and he remembered how much it had bothered him to deceive people like that, and how much glee Dean seemed to get out of it—and Jess, being the incorrigible and adorable bad influence that she was, insisted he use one to go buy them liquor for Halloween.

"Best kind of candy," she teased. She had tried, a couple days before Halloween, to get him into the spirit of the holiday, but Sam had refused to be swayed—one of the few times he'd managed to really say no to her without at some point giving in anyway.

"There is absolutely no point in getting wasted," Sam argued. He could still remember those late nights when he'd been sixteen, and John had been on a job, and Dean had thought the best way to cheer Sam up over the fact that their father seemed to think he still needed a baby-sitter was to let Sam get as drunk as he wanted. Drunk till he was puking with it, because Dean always thought it was kind of funny not to tell him to pace himself with bottles of water.

Of course, they'd rarely had much bottled water, and certainly not enough to keep pace with the alcohol John left lying around.

Dean always felt guilty eventually, though, because underneath the big-brother desire to torment and tease and was the equally fervent big-brother desire to keep Sam safe and well. Which meant that when he was three sheets to the wind, it was funny to dare Sam to drink him under the table. It was funny when his head hurt the following morning to listen to Sam puke.

By afternoon, though, Dean was conciliatory and all care and concern, especially if Sam's headache hadn't abated yet.

Sam never told Dean how often his head had felt better but he'd continued to let Dean believe it pained him, simply because of his own little-brother need to get even.

Sam shook off the old memories and refocused on Jess, who was staring at him expectantly, one hand on her hip, her eyes merry. She must have known he'd give in to her. Sam wondered for just a second if that was what it had been like for Dean, always around Sam, always subjected to Sam's whims and his impeccable 'please give me what I want' face.

Jess had that face down pat.

"All right," he conceded. "But I am not holding your hair back if you throw up."

She threw her arms into the air in a vee above her head, then tossed them around his neck and kissed the corner of his mouth. "It's a deal. And I don't puke," she added.

Despite his best efforts, a solitary memory snuck back to the forefront of his mind, like a snake about to strike: Dean, brushing his hair off his sweaty forehead; Dean, pulling it away from his face one of the many, many times he'd thrown up in Dean's presence—whether it was illness, injury, or a hangover, Dean always seemed to be there. And even though he'd run his mouth off about how disgusting the whole scenario was, how bad Sam smelled when he was rank and clammy with perspiration, Dean had always stuck around, always with calloused fingers at the nape of his neck or stroking gently down his flexed forearm as he clung to the porcelain bowl.

Sam had the sneaking suspicion he was going to be doing the same for Jess, no matter what he claimed now.

Sam and Jess spent all of the day following Halloween holed up in her room with the shades drawn. They didn't really move much, all things considered; Sam's head felt like Dean had hooked up his tape player directly into his skull and was playing Metallica's most obnoxious and loudest songs on repeat.

He could, in fact, take his pulse simply by counting the pounding in his skull.

He just couldn't explain why he had such a terrible hangover when he hadn't even drunk all that much liquor.

Jess, meanwhile, tied her hair back in a ponytail just in case she got too nauseous, teasing weakly that at least that way Sam wouldn't have to witness it. He got the strong impression that she didn't want him to be around for something so unattractive so soon after they'd gotten together, anyway.

Sam, though, remembered how easy it was to let go of those inhibitions when one's entire gorge was rising up at warp speed and the last thing a person wanted was to get it in their hair.

They missed all of their classes on Thursday, but by Friday Sam woke up feeling more human, though he kept catching flashes of light out of the corners of his eyes. He sat up and pretty much fell out of Jess's bed, then got to his feet and stumbled to the bathroom with a morning hard-on and a wicked need to piss. When he got to the bathroom in her suite, he found Jess in there, her hair clipped up with tendrils trailing down her flawless skin, her bra hooked but the straps still hanging down, her leg up on the toilet lid and one hand holding a razor.

He stopped completely dead; this was way out of his comfort zone. Sure, Dean had taught him to shave, and he'd had years of practise brushing his teeth, shaving, and using the toilet with Dean and Dad using the bathroom like it had a revolving door, but this was totally different: for one thing, he wasn't sure they'd been going out long enough for him to be ready to witness Jess shaving her legs. He was still at that stage where he wanted to pretend that they were just always that smooth, as if by magic.

Jess must have heard him breathing behind her because she waved the razor in his direction.

"I'll be done in about five minutes if you can wait," she said, returning to drawing the blade up through the shaving cream liberally smeared on her leg. "You want to get breakfast before our first class?"

He was reminded by her comment that it was Friday and they had a class together in—he quickly checked his watch—about forty-five minutes. He turned around to flee and hide in her room, but she made a noise that the cross between a snort and a laugh would sound like.

"Stay," she said. "You might as well get used to it; this is what happens when you start to get serious with someone, Sam."

Was that what they were? Serious already, and it had only been a couple of months? But then he looked at her again, caught just a glimpse of the side of her nearly bare breast in the mirror, and felt his hard-on shift from normal morning occurrence to something more insistent. He leaned against the doorjamb and watched the muscles of her ass flex as she twisted a little to rinse the razor. He'd already said the words, I love you, to her a thousand times in his head, but he couldn't believe she would just that easily be on the same page as he was—that she would be as serious about him as he was about her.

He scratched his balls as he stood there waiting, and then, as he thought about how much—scarily much—he loved her, he found himself slowly stroking up and down his dick over the outside of his worn cotton boxer-briefs.

And in the space of an instant he went from miles outside his comfort zone to suddenly smack in the middle of it, discovering just how much he enjoyed watching her shave, just how sexy it was. He felt his dick stiffen up a little more as he caught sight of that little mole on her leg.

She laughed brightly and tossed the razor onto the counter.

"Are you jerking off?" she asked, and turned around, not even bothering to hold the cups of her bra in place; they sagged at the mid-point of each breast and almost exposed her nipples. Sam didn't stop what he was doing. He just smirked at her and ran the blunt edge of his fingernail up along his shaft.

"I could do that better," she said in a husky voice. Her eyes were liquid-dark. Sam quirked his lips at her.

"Oh yeah?" he said, and she reached out, covered his hand with her own, began to move with him, her fingers slipping over to the side of his and grazing his cotton-clad dick.

"Pretty sure I can, yeah," she said, and flicked his wrist away, replacing it with her hand. And then she trailed her fingers back down his shaft, pressed in just a little, and slid her hand inside the opening of his underwear.

She fisted his cock and squeezed gently, and Sam went up on his tip-toes on a gasp that felt like it seared his throat on its way out. He realised he wasn't watching her any more, his eyes closed of their own accord, just leaning into her touch, his hips rocking forward slightly as he sought more friction, and she obliged by tightening her grip on him.

"Both gonna need a shower after this," she murmured, her breath scorching against the v-neck of his t-shirt. He canted his hips again involuntarily and she thumbed over the head of his cock and streaked pre-come down along his shaft as she rubbed him off.

Sam wasn't particularly surprised by the groan yanked out of him, or the fact that he still came embarrassingly easily whenever Jess was involved, but he sagged against the wooden jamb behind him and let her play her fingers over him through the aftershocks, then snugged an arm around her and reeled her in so tight she could barely breathe, her hand sticky against his bare thigh, and kissed her fucking stupid.

Then, while she was still dazed from it, he stole the first shower. He could tell from the indignant noises that she wanted to crash his party, but he was still too unsure of himself to be naked around her, so he had pushed her out the door first.

And then realised he had to wrap himself in a towel and put his filthy t-shirt back on before he could emerge.

She laughed at him when he came out so oddly attired. A lot.

But as she just as firmly slammed the door in his face, he wondered about just how silky her legs would feel, freshly shaved—in front of him, no less.

It would not be the last time he watched her do it, and while he would eventually grow accustomed to it, it would never stop affecting him with that same little unconscious thrill of being allowed a peek at her daily routine.

"C'mon, Sam, just try them on." Jess grinned at him and threw a pair of pink lacy panties at his head. They were the same ones she'd been wearing when they met, and the same ones he'd taken off of her just last week, holding his hand up with them hanging on one finger.

He grabbed them out of the air instinctively and pressed them to his nose, laughing when Jess shrieked and barrelled into him, knocking him to the bed and flicking the lacy scrap of fabric out of the way before kissing his eyes, his nose, his lips. Kissing him utterly breathless—or maybe that was because she'd crushed the air out of his lungs when she'd attacked him.

"Oh my God," he said, laughing between kisses. "Uncle!" He grabbed her upper arms and lifted her up, her hazel eyes snapping and fixed on his lips, her mouth red-swollen and parted. He couldn't stop himself; he pulled her back down and sucked her lower lip right into his mouth, used his teeth, dragged her against him until she was splayed over him, the heat of her body electric and the taste of her mouth intoxicating.

She gave as good as she got, biting at his lower lip and sweeping her tongue into his mouth like a conquering invader, rubbing her hands down his sides and then up under his shirt.

Sam wanted to rip her clothes off—find out what panties she had on today—but as she tilted her head to slant her lips over his better, he caught sight of the clock. He twisted and broke the kiss, panting heavily, his cock tightening his jeans to the point of pain.

"I gotta go to class, babe," he said breathlessly. She had her thighs sprawled on either side of him and sat up, eyes still merry even as her lips formed a delicious pout.

"Man, that sucks," she said, "because I was just thinking about how hot you'd look in those, and then I could just, you know, mouth over that fabric until it's nice and wet and you can't tell what's pre-come and what's from me."

Sam felt his cock spasm and he wanted to skip class in the worst way, but... "I can't, baby. This is a really important lecture today."

She flopped down with her face in the blanket and said, muffled, "I know, but I can wish."

He neatly flipped her off of him—gently—and then, patting her belly where her shirt had rolled up, said, "And I'm not putting those on, no matter how much you dirty-talk to me."

He adjusted himself and tried to think about something completely unsexy as he gathered up his things for class.

She rolled onto her back and huffed, something probably meant to sound like a sigh but came across more as a stifled laugh.

"But I am so good at it," she pointed out, and Sam poked her in the bare toe.

"I know you are. I really gotta go, can you lock up when you leave?"

"I'm not an idiot, Sam," she said, sitting up. "You look so fuckin' beautiful today, baby, I just wanna tear your clothes off," and that was one of the things Sam loved best about her, the fact that sometimes it felt like they shared a brain—she was so attuned to him in every way that mattered. He forcibly didn't think about the one other person in his life who shared that quality, because if he thought about Dean, he'd remember how much better Dean knew him because Dean knew all the parts Sam was pressed to keep hidden from Jess.

"Thanks for that," he tossed over his shoulder, taking one last greedy glance at her, her blonde hair a mess around her shoulders, still looking recently-kissed and totally debauched and if the lecture weren't one of the most important ones of the semester, he would've totally indulged his cock's desire to sink into her and clutch at her until he forgot everything but the feel of her. Till he forgot his own name. And then he thought of something.

"And don't tease my roommate," he called back as he was shutting the door. He knew she wouldn't cheat on him, but he also knew—and loved—her playful nature, which often led to her doing things like pranking Sam with her panties over his lampshade or a condom conspicuously on the floor, and more than once his poor geeky roommate had been utterly scandalised.

Sam grinned to himself as he started walking to class; Jess was irreverent and unrepentant (much like Dean, his mind whispered) and he loved every second he spent with her.

Jess was parked outside his dorm room when he got back from class, one of her long legs up against her chest while the other made an obstacle in the hallway, her books in a haphazard pile next to her, her pen in her mouth and her head back against the wall with her eyes closed.

She'd obviously come back to his room after her class and found it locked because his roommate must be out somewhere—Sam wondered if it was Dungeons and Dragons or Fantasy Football this time—which meant she had to wait for him.

"Hey, babe," he said, kicking her lightly in the ankle. Her eyes popped open and her lips turned up.

"Sam!" she said, and bounced to her feet, throwing her arms around his neck and planting a kiss half-against his mouth, crooked but still a kiss in all the best ways.

"Wanna take this inside your room?" she said against his lips, waggly eyebrows definitely implied.

"Why do I get the feeling I'll be doing my homework at 2am?" Sam asked rhetorically as she clapped a hand over his ass.

"Because you're going to let me into your room right now and we are going to put your sock around the doorknob and have hot sweaty sex until you can't move," Jess replied, answering him anyway.

Sam wanted to sigh and roll his eyes like that was such a chore, but his boner from earlier was so interested and she felt so good in his arms, so he just kissed the side of her neck and obediently lifted up his foot.

She knelt down and tugged off his shoe, then his sock, and gave him a wicked twist of her lips as she fastened it on the door.

Sam grabbed for his keys, and barely got the door unlocked before she was on him again, her breath sweet and hot against any little bit of exposed skin.

He didn't even notice that he'd left his shoe in the hallway, he was so wrapped up in kissing her, in touching every bit of silken skin he could reach.

"Hey, Sam," Jess said archly, and Sam looked at her over his bobbing dick, just inches from her lips. She had his boxer-briefs down around his thighs, pinning his legs together, and his jeans were still hanging on his ankles, but she moved away from his dick—Sam moaned in frustration—and started tugging at his jeans, getting them over his embarrassingly huge feet, and then she hooked her thumbs in his boxer-briefs and made short work of them as well.

"I've got an idea," she said. "Well, more like I've got a plan."

Sam was a little worried about what she was planning, judging from her tone of voice. "Should I be afraid?" he asked, wiggling his toes as she ran her hand up under the arch of his foot and then the back of his calf.

"Maybe," she said, kissing the top of his leg, right over the bone. She licked it for a second and then started trailing kisses up his leg, right into the very inside of his thigh and Sam startled and tried to pull away from her when her lips found that scar that Dean had sutured up so long ago.

But she pressed him back down with one hand, soothing him with a stroke of her thumb across his skin.

"It's all right, baby," she said. "Haven't you figured out by now that I love every part of you, no matter what?"

Sam spread his legs a little, hoping she'd move up and back to his neglected dick.

Teasingly, he said, "My cock loves you back, you know," and he knew he was being obnoxious, but Jess had apparently long ago learned to live with his tendency to be obstinate and irritating. (He blamed Dean and his father for those left-over traits.)

"And I love your cock as well," she replied easily. "But I bet you'll love this even more."

"Do I even want to know?"

"Probably not," she said. "If I tell you it will just make you nervous."

"That right there makes me nervous," he said in a strangled voice as she leaned up and blew a breath over his aching dick.

"You'll like it," she promised. "I've never met anyone who didn't."

And then her mouth slid between his thighs, pausing for only seconds over the fullness of his balls, before her tongue peeped out of her mouth and flitted against—oh dear God.

Sam's legs fell open as much as they would go of their own accord and his hips bucked right up into the press of her tongue as she put it in places he didn't even think about, much less imagine someone kissing. Or licking. Or—he whimpered in a completely non-masculine way and humped upwards again. She had her tongue almost inside him by this point, circling and then dipping inward, and every time she did it, she got further inside.

Sam wanted to be shocked, or resistant, but it felt so damn good that all he could do was try to get his thighs wider open and hope she'd keep burying her tongue in totally forbidden places.

His head fell back against the mattress, neck arching taut, and he could feel the muscles and tendons throbbing as they stood out in his neck and arms as he gripped the bedsheets and thrashed underneath her.

She didn't seem in the least bit surprised by his reaction, nor did she seem turned off by the fact that he was practically riding her face; she just kept pushing her tongue inside, and after another short pass of her tongue over the outer rim, she managed to get enough in to lick him open from the inside out.

Sam shuddered, body trembling and coming apart, and came—and she wasn't even touching his damn dick.

She licked him one last time and then lifted her head, gazing back up at him with lips ruby from the pressure, and her chin was damp and her eyes were bright.

"I told you you'd love it," she said, and smacked his thigh. "My turn."

Sam was about to ask what she meant, but she clarified: "To get off, I mean. You don't have to rim me. Yet, anyway."

Sam panted, come drying icky on his belly, and tried to gather up the scattered remains of his wits.

"As soon... as I... can breathe," he said, and she smiled, leaning up over his face, her mouth still obscenely puffy.

And then she ducked her head down and kissed him absolutely silly, sending his wits to the four corners of the earth again.

Sam didn't think he'd ever been so happy.

Dean hands are the most incredible thing Sam has ever seen, at twelve years old and captivated by watching everything his older brother does.

Dean has used those hands for everything—from stripping down the guns and cleaning them to washing up Sam when he's been sick with fever. Those hands have taken care of Sam when John was off on hunts, too distracted by monsters and evil and other people's families to pay attention to his own.

And those hands, now, are pressing the buttons on the remote control for the crappy TV that gets such terrible reception in this apartment, the apartment that John swore was paid up for three months and then, just like that, yesterday he says they have to move on.

Sam wants to ask Dean why they have to move again so soon—Dean knows everything—but instead he slumps in the easy chair, legs curled up against his belly, face ducked low against his knees, and stares at Dean's hands.

He's too old now for any more of Dean's hugs, he knows that, but he misses them. He misses the soft touch of Dean's thumb at the back of his neck, the way that Dean squeezing him close reminded him of the mother he never got to know.

Dean punches the 'up' button again and Sam's lip pushes out, fingers twisting in the worn fabric of his sweatpants, and wishes he was just like Dean—he wants to know how to act like nothing matters. He wants to stop looking up to Dean with the kind of hero-worship that makes Dean laugh and tease.

Sam sighs and fixes his eyes on the television and the stupid b-grade horror movie Dean's discovered through his channel surfing. It's grainy and the picture fuzzes in and out, but even though there's an ache in Sam's chest cavity—like his heart is working too hard and aching tired—he settles even more deeply in to the chair to watch the movie.

"Stop staring at me," Dean says suddenly, and Sam startles, almost lulled to sleep by the crappy movie.

"I'm not," he says, because he's been facing the TV with his eyes glazing over for the last half hour. Dean gets up and goes over to the fridge in the little alcove that passes for their kitchen, grabs one of John's beers. Sam perks up a little.

"I want one too," he says as Dean pops the cap with the edge of his ring.

"Fuck you," Dean says easily. "You're way too young."

"So're you," Sam points out. Dean puts the bottle to his lips and sucks down half of the beer in one go. Sam frowns.

"What the hell are you getting tanked for?" he asks, watching Dean as his brother drinks down the rest of the beer.

Sam wishes he could drink that much that fast without getting trashed—Dean has a much higher tolerance, even at sixteen—but even Dean's gonna be wasted if he keeps that up.

Dean drops the bottle down on the end table with a 'clunk'. "Because I need to be drunk to deal with all of your questions," his brother says, and his eyes flick towards Sam, linger for a second, and then cut away just as quickly, like Dean can't stand to look at him.

It's ironic, then, that Dean thinks Sam is staring at him, especially when Dean apparently doesn't want to look at Sam at all.

Sam wonders, not for the first time in his life, what his older brother is thinking; there are times, like this one, where Sam just can't read him, even though the rest of the time Sam finds Dean completely transparent, and he wants to know just why suddenly Dean's shut up, refusing to let Sam see what's really going on with him.

And then all of a sudden Dean's standing over Sam, hands braced on the back of the chair, staring right into his eyes in a way that Sam doesn't understand and makes him vaguely uncomfortable, but then Dean drops his head, breath washing over Sam's bare neck, and his brother twists, shoves Sam over, and fits himself into the tiny space left over in the chair, wrapping one arm around Sam's shoulder. And just like that, Sam feels lightness overwhelm him.

Dean knows him so well—Dean knew just how badly Sam has needed this hug, and it's perfect, Dean's head against his and his hand against Sam's collarbone. Sam feels loved and wanted, and he wants to explain to Dean just how much he needs those feelings, but he's twelve, not five, and he knows better now. He knows that he can't just spew mushy stuff out all over Dean, or Dean'll get angry and stalk away to the room they share, and Sam will wind up sleeping on the half-broken couch again.

Sam's twelve and that's a double-edged sword, because while he craves this feeling of closeness, he also knows by now that the reason he does is because he never knew his mother, because his father's never around, and Dean's the only one he's got.

He cuddles closer to Dean even though he knows Dean will mock him for it come morning, and falls asleep with Dean's heart beat audible in his ear.

Sam and Jess slept together for the very first time on her birthday, because she said, the night before, when Sam was falling asleep on the common room couch with her head nestled in the crook of his arm,

"Tomorrow's my birthday, Sam." When he'd made a non-committal noise, still drifting towards oblivion, she added, "I want it to be special."

He grunted and brushed ineffectually at the strands of her hair that were tickling his face. He was still mostly out of it when she repeated,

"I want my birthday to be extra-special this year, Sam. You know?"

He forced his lips to form words, slurred though they were: "Mmm, yeah?"

"I'm thinking you should fuck me," she said, poking him in the ribs to get his attention. "If that's not putting too fine a point on it."

Still lulled by almost-sleep, he voiced what Dean would have said: "I could put a fine point on it, if you'd like."

She laughed a little, rubbing her fingertips along the edge of his jaw, over the stubble there.

"I'm turning eighteen, finally. That's a pretty special thing, you know? And I wanna share it with you."

Sam was about to kiss the side of her head and mumble something about how exhausted he was—he'd been up the entire previous night studying for an exam—when something registered, vaguely.

"Wha's the date t'morrow?" he asked, still sounding sleep-drunk.

"Twenty-fourth," she replied promptly, and just like that, every nerve in Sam's body went tight like a bowstring in shock. He couldn't imagine how he'd been with her all this time already without ever asking her when her birthday was. Without ever finding out that she shared the same birthdate as Dean.

She felt the tenseness and soothed him with her hand, and he very deliberately forced relaxation throughout his body.

"What's the matter?" she asked, not unexpectedly. And because Sam still hadn't told her that he had a brother whom he missed desperately, he lied.

"Forgot about a paper due tomorrow," he said. She sighed, understanding immediately.

"You should go nap, at least, before you work on it." She patted his chest, narrowly missing an old scar she didn't know was there. Sam sucked in a breath as the rest of what she'd been going on about registered with his lethargic brain.

He was going to have to get naked in front of her to sleep with her, and he wanted to give her what she wanted for her birthday, because she'd given him so much during the previous months of his time at Stanford.

Maybe she would let him do it in the dark.

She didn't. In fact, she stood up on his bed and danced to whatever random thing he had playing on his laptop, slowly stripping her tank top over her head, and Sam swallowed with a struggle when he discovered that she wasn't wearing anything at all underneath it.

He should have been prepared for that. He'd spent his whole life learning how to be prepared for anything, yet he was completely knocked on his ass by the fact that she would, that easily and casually, take her clothes off for him. He would've expected shyness, but then again, he should've known he wouldn't find any of that in Jess. She loved taking the rug out from underneath him when he least expected it.

He'd touched her once or twice, felt the outside swell of her breast before, but he'd never seen her naked, and certainly not with the lights blazing. They were in a dorm, so they didn't have candles—though Jess had tried to convince Sam to flout the rules—but she improvised by bringing her desk lamp from her room and setting in on the headboard behind Sam so that, when she positioned herself standing between his legs at the end of his bed, it was like a spotlight on her perfect skin, which shimmered a little with sweat as she danced.

She started reaching for the zipper on her cutoffs, but paused when she focused on him again.

"Sam!" she said, and it sounded like a scold. He sat up a little bit higher in bed and tried not to look guilty, like he'd been staring at her breasts, expecting an eyes up here! reproach. But he should've known better than that.

"You're not getting undressed," she said, and her fingers fluttered around the button of her cutoffs, still on the verge of slipping it through the hole. He stammered but without words, if that were even possible. "C'mon, boy, I wanna see that body you've been keeping so assiduously hidden for so long."

"I don't think—"

"You're not getting off that easily," she said sternly, then sniggered a little. "Hell, you won't be getting off at all if you don't start showing some skin."

He tried—remembering the last time he'd clearly examined himself in a mirror—to picture where the worst of the scars were, and whether he could keep her from seeing them, but she flipped her button open, abandoned her striptease, and shucked off her shorts. She was wearing a scrap of fabric underneath it that was all lace, and when she got down on her knees, he caught sight of the bare side of her ass. Some kind of thong, then.

She started pushing his shirt up his chest and he grabbed her hands, but not before her eyes widened.

"What the fuck?" she said, and that was it, Sam was waiting for her to grab her clothes and bail, but instead she just shook off his loose grip and lifted his shirt for a clearer look.

"Hey," she said. "How did you get these?" Without even needing to see, Sam knew she was referring to some burns he'd sustained on a hunt where the vengeful spirit had shoved him right into the open grave just as the lighter fluid had caught—Dean had worse burns on the outside of his forearm from yanking Sam out of there so fast. They'd faded—it had been at least seven years since then—but there was a lot of light in the room and they were wicked ugly.

He couldn't even think of a plausible lie. What came out of his mouth was so unbelievable he knew she'd be all over it in a second. "Accident," he said. "House fire when I was a kid."

She nodded, but she tugged his shirt up even higher, eyes going even bigger when she found the long curved scar that crossed over his ribcage—the result of an angry ghost with a fucking scythe of all things. Dean had rescued him from that one, too, but not before it had cut him up pretty damn good. And Dean had stitched it up, too, but it would've taken a miracle to make it disappear entirely.

"You got a lot of accidents mapped out on your skin, Sam," she said, and Sam could hear the faint accusation in her tone. He reached for her, tilted her chin up so that she met his eyes, and forced out a better lie, holding her gaze because he knew the trick to lying convincingly. This one hurt to say, because he knew she would believe it, and he knew it would make her sad. But he had to do it. He didn't need her prying into his past and starting trouble for his father or his brother, no matter how much he loved her.

"My fault," he said. "I used to... have a lot of problems, did a lot of stupid shit. Burned myself, crap like that."

She let his shirt drop. But before he could turn away and wait, once again, for her to leave, she was kissing his mouth, softly, gently.

Into his mouth, she whispered, "if you ever do anything like that again, while we're together, you'll have scars from me to worry about, Sam," before she slipped her lips to the side, kissed down along his jawline, and then started pulling up his shirt again.

He didn't mean to voice his vulnerability, but the words filtered out through his safety valve anyway. "They're not... I'm not... ugly?" he asked her.

She stopped what she was doing and looked straight at him. "You're the hottest guy I've ever seen," she said, "and battle scars—" if she only knew "—only make you hotter. As long as you don't work out to be a trainwreck, we're good."

And then she settled back down to doing what she did best: making him feel amazing, like a human, just like everyone else.

"You're the hottest guy I've ever seen," Dean's latest mark says, her hand on his forearm, leaning against the bar so that he breasts spill over the flimsy neckline of her top.

Sam's been sitting on the other side of Dean for an hour, drinking almost exclusively water because he's still only seventeen and getting drunk has lost its appeal since Dean seems to find it so entertaining. At this, though, he signals the bartender and orders a whiskey. Some things—like the performance taking place right next to him—require alcohol to deal with.

Sam's gotten so tired of being invisible when his brother's around. Girls never even give him a second look once Dean's turned his attention to them—and Dean lavishes his flirtatious attention on every girl who is even slightly attractive. It's one of his more infuriating traits: Sam hates watching the girls just fall into his net.

He tells himself over and over that it's just because he doesn't want yet another girl to trip over her self-respect in an attempt to get Dean into bed with her, but in reality it's jealousy. Sam would like, just once, for the girl to see Dean, smile, and then put her hand on Sam's forearm, smile like this latest is smiling at Dean, say something like that to Sam.

Dean's heard it all and he eats it up like it's his due; he never turns down a compliment and he never turns down a conquest if the vanquished is a pretty girl. Sam sips at his whiskey and watches Dean with his overflowing charm and his exceptionally pretty face lure another girl into his orbit.

This one is a redhead, and her light blue halter sets off both her hair and her eyes at the same time. She's got freckles on her tipped-up nose and she's a little bit more stocky than Dean usually goes for, but sometimes his brother'll take anything because, frankly, Dean's kind of a whore and he doesn't really discriminate all that much.

"It's like, I can't even believe I'm talking to you," she gushes. "What on earth would a guy like you see in lil ol' me?"

Sam sighs into his tumbler. This girl has some serious self-esteem issues from the sound of it, and Sam already knows that Dean's not going to realise—or maybe he just won't notice—and the girl will be worse off tomorrow than she is now, when Dean and Sam take off in the Impala towards another faceless town.

"It's your pretty little nose, sweetheart," Dean says, placing his hand over hers where it's still settled on his overheated skin. The bar is sultry with heat and smoke, and Sam's fairly certain that that is just exactly how Dean likes it.

She titters a little and flushes, and Sam knows it's not from the heat or the smog.

"It's too small," she protests, and covers her face like she's ashamed of it. Sam sighs again. Now not only is she self-conscious, but she's using it to her advantage to flirt. He can already tell that he's either going to be sleeping in the Impala—again—or that tomorrow morning the Impala's going to have that funny, musty, after-sex scent that it sometimes has when Dean's been out and picking up girls.

"It's perfect," Dean says. He lifts her hand off his arm finger by finger and brings them up to his mouth, kissing them with his lips slightly parted.

Damn, it's making Sam nauseous, and he knows it's not the drink because he's barely touched it.

Dean stands up, twists a little to look at Sam. "I'll see you later," he says, and the girl finally, finally looks at Sam for the second time since she got a really good view of Dean.

"Hey, is that your boyfriend?" she asks. "'Cause I would totally—"

Sam feels even worse; now this chick is suggesting a threesome, which means not only does she have no self-respect but Dean's probably going to do something gross like leer at Sam as if he's really considering it. Sam hates when he does that: turns his flirting on Sam, like that's not really inappropriate. Though Sam's pretty sure that's exactly why he does it. He shudders and swallows too much of his whiskey at once and it sears his throat on the way down, almost making him cough in an embarrassing fashion.

"Nah," Dean says, though. Even though when Sam glances up he finds himself staring right into Dean's green eyes—mostly clear but just a little fuzzy from drink. "That's my lame little brother," he adds, taking her arm and starting to steer her towards the door.

As they walk away, Sam hears, "Wow, he's really big. For your little brother."

Sam gulps down the last of his drink and contemplates walking back to the motel. Finally, he got some attention from a girl, and it was only because she probably thought the idea of two guys together was hot.

Sam gets to his feet and strolls towards the bathroom. Either way, he's probably got at least twenty minutes to kill before he can chance going back to their room.

Jess came flying into the room like a one-woman hurricane—which she kind of was, really—and plopped herself in Sam's lap, her legs halfway across his thighs and her arms around his neck, leaning back against the couch.

"Class was murder today," she said, weaving her fingers in and out of the curls at his nape. "I wish you could've been there to save me—Jesus, everyone was so fucking stupid today, and the prof wouldn't let me alone. If you had been there at least he could've picked on someone else once in awhile."

Sam looked mournfully down at the book he had been reading, half-crushed under Jess's perfect ass. It was a crime to damage a good book, even with something as beautiful and shapely as Jess's rear.

With a quick glance upward at the ceiling, he let go of the book and wrapped his arms around her, and she shifted—pert ass rubbing across his dick as she moved—and re-settled herself so that he could hold her more easily. She lay her head on his shoulder.

"You know I had the job interview," he told her gently, kissing the top of her head, blonde strands of her hair sticking to his lips.

Just like that she bounced back up, turning to look at him, and ever-so-slightly grinding against him, her face all smiles, her usual good cheer back in spades.

"How d'you think you did, baby?" she asked, and ran her fingers up over the bump of his spine and into his hair, tangling them into his unruly curls.

"I don't know," he said, even though he'd employed every last trick he knew that got people to trust him, to like him. He probably had gotten the job on that alone, and though he wasn't really qualified for it in the technical sense, he knew he'd pick up everything he needed to know fast enough that no-one would know the difference. It wasn't really the first time he'd used ill-begotten skills to make his way in life, but Jess didn't need to know that. He closed his eyes and acted as though all of her movement over his cock was completely distracting him, that he wasn't remembering all of the times he and Dean had done their routine in tandem and how strange it had been to do it alone, or how easy it had been to do it at all, even though he'd sworn that Stanford was a new start, a place where all of those old habits and all that old shit would be pushed as far into the corners of his mind as he could.

But Dean wouldn't be silenced, even if they hadn't spoken in years. The little voice in his brain—the image of his brother, he couldn't suppress it, couldn't bury it deep enough. Even fucking Jess never quite got Dean out of his head, and he hated it. He wanted to be his own person—he wanted to be alone, goddammit. Well, he wanted to be with Jess, but without a phantom third person, like a missing limb, that followed him everywhere and influenced everything he did.

Would he ever be able to get away from that—to stop being 'Dean's little brother' and learn to be just 'Sam'?

Jess poked him in the centre of his chest. "Hey, babe," she said. "You didn't answer my question."

"What question?" he asked her, opening his eyes again and finding her almost nose to nose with him. His jeans were too tight and she had that glitter in her eyes that meant she was up to mischief.

"Oh, my God," she said theatrically. "It's only been a little over a year and you've already stopped listening to me when I talk." She squirmed again, just to show she was teasing—in more ways than one—and that she wasn't really miffed by it.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I was just thinking about m—the job interview." They'd been together so long already, practically since that first day—she'd shown him just the double-straps crossing over her beautiful hips when they got back to his room, lifting her shirt and yanking her jeans down a little with her thumbs hooked in the belt loops to prove that her panties were, in fact, pink and lacy—but he still couldn't talk to her about Dean. He wasn't sure if it was because it hurt too much to know that Dean was out there somewhere, not even trying to contact him (his family cell phone—the one no-one knew about except his father and Dean—had been silent forever), or because he was the one who stupidly wanted his family to care, to be proud of the fact that he'd gone to college, that he'd made dean's list every semester. It actually rankled a little every time he did simply because of the fucking name, and that was just pathetic.

In any event, he couldn't talk about them. Not yet. He slid his linked hands down the curve of her spine and settled them into the dip above her ass.

"Ask me again," he said, and she grinned—oh, he knew that grin, and it was downright evil.

"How long d'you think it'll take to earn enough money to move out of this shithole?" she said, withdrawing one hand from his hair to wave it about, encompassing Sam's dorm room.

"Hey," he said, the lie of faked indignance sliding easily forth. "I clean up after myself."

"No," she corrected. "You shove things into corners just before I get home and hope I won't notice, and then as soon as you fall asleep after we make love I wind up running around putting things away. Man, you're not a very good liar, Sam," she said, and pressed her head back against his chest, her lips so close to his nipple under his gray cotton t-shirt that her breath warmed it.

If she only knew, he thought, how much he lied, and how she never, unless he wanted her to, knew that he was lying. If she only knew how much of his life was chaotic and disorganised and didn't make any sense—how crazy that it made him sound, how crazy it made him. She'd never be able to understand it—no-one did, except the very few people who saw it with their own eyes, the filthy underbelly of the world revealed to them, the monsters that no-one believed in preying on people every day. He shuddered, but Jess didn't even notice because he hid it so well.

"I do not fall asleep right after we make love," he said, the indignance real this time. "I cuddle first."

"Now, see, it takes a real man to admit he can cuddle," she said, and kissed him, the side of his nipple. Sam shivered—he let her feel that. He still hated how he censored himself around her, how he had to keep so many secrets just to keep her safe, to keep her with him.

"To answer your question," Sam said, enjoying the feel of her lips against him, "I'm hoping not more than a couple of months, as long as you keep getting as many tips from your job at the coffee shop."

"Should I start wearing halter tops that are basically only covering my nipples and really little shorts?" she asked playfully. Sam whapped her with one of the pillows from the couch.

"God no," he said. "I don't want anyone else to know how beautiful you are!"

"I better call my lover," she said, "let him know that he's not allowed to see me naked. That we only get to do it in the dark."

This last was a jab of sorts: she still didn't understand why Sam liked so much to do it with all the lights on, no matter how many times he told her it was because he wanted to see her expression. He never confessed that he didn't want any of his interactions to be coloured with darkness if they didn't have to be. Jess was lightness, she was free; she wasn't weighted down with everything he knew. He wanted to keep it that way.

It was possible that even as far back as then he knew it could never work out, that the filth and evil would come for them, taint his perfect, sunshiny happiness.

He pulled her up closer and smacked a kiss on her lips.

"C'mon, baby," he said, ignoring her playful jibes about another lover. He knew that she loved him, that she loved only him. "Let's go to bed."

She grinned against his lips. "Let's do it on the couch," she said.

"My roommates might catch us," he said, since they were sitting in the common room of his suite.

"Yeah, well," said Jess, "I suppose you could try to blame the mess on them, they are a bunch of college boys." She tweaked his nipple through his shirt and rubbed against him again. "But half the fun is almost getting caught."

Sam didn't like to take risks, not after a life lived on the edge, risk-taking the only way of living he'd ever known, but Jess... she was damn persuasive.

He kissed her again and worked his hand in between them, the sound of a zipper exceptionally loud in the room. Jess sat back and stripped off her shirt, her bra a demi-cup with lace edging.

Sam had learned, in the time he'd known her, how much she liked lace. He reached for one of the cups and flipped it down.

Jess arched forward, and Sam thought: it can't get any better than this.

But he was wrong. It could get better, and it did. Jess made the shadows go away, and she did it so easily—Sam had no idea how she managed it. But the longer he spent with her, the closer they became, the more all of that hated baggage from his childhood receded some place where he couldn't quite reach it.

And that made him so happy, it made him careless.

It made him forget.

"I think I'd like a little boy," Jess said, musing late one night as they lay in their new double bed in their new apartment.

"Jess..." Sam said, lightly running his fingers up and down her back. She was wearing a white satin nightgown that hit mid-thigh and had a strappy back. He loved that nightgown, and she knew it. She smiled against his chest, and he felt those beautiful soft lips curve. "Law school," he reminded her.

"I'm not going to law school," she said mischievously. "Oh, come on, Sam. Don't you want a family?"

Sam considered, sliding his fingers underneath the straps of her nightie. He curled his fingers against her warm flesh and imagined what it might be like to come home, to a real home, and see his beautiful girlfriend waiting for him. And then he pictured her with the slightly rounded belly of the newly pregnant, and his breath caught in his lungs. She felt it, too; she rubbed her hand over his heart, touched just above one of the many scars he wore like badges.

He remembered his own family, Dad and Dean, and resolutely tried to turn his mind away from the alluring sight it was presenting him: Jess, maybe in blue satin this time, her belly just big enough to swell it out, her blonde hair tousled around her shoulders.

His cock liked the image far too much.

But Dad and Dean were there, still, lingering at the corners of his mind like loiterers. He wanted to forget—he didn't want to think about how he'd grown up.

He skimmed his hand up her back and into the hair at the base of her skull. He twisted some of it into his fingers gently and hung on while he considered his answer, and Jess didn't press him. She just lay quietly, her breath soothing on his bare skin.

Finally, he replied: "I don't know." It was a cop-out.

Once she'd put the idea into his head, he couldn't so easily force it out again. Nothing said—there were no rules that said—that he couldn't have his own children, and raise them normally, without telling them there was evil in the night, or putting guns in chubby untrained fingers and insisting they take care of their own problems.

Not that he could tell Jess that.

"Or maybe a little girl," Jess said, grinning against him. "I bet if we had a little girl she'd wrap you right around her finger."

"You're assuming we're gonna be together," Sam put in, unable to stop himself. They hadn't talked about that—not even hinted at it once. Now Jess was talking about the babies they could have, and he hadn't even considered a ring on her finger yet.

"Sam," she murmured, and kissed his chest, tripped her tongue along one of his scars, and he remembered wondering what girl would want him with those.

Jess didn't seem to mind—but Jess was special, extraordinary. She was far too good for a guy like him anyway.

He reached around her with his other arm, turning onto his side and by default pushing her off his chest and onto the bed; she landed on her back, her hair a blonde mess on the pillow, her lips swollen and lightly parted, breasts perfectly pushing up the satin of her nightie. Sam was so far gone with desire—and love—for her that he didn't think about what he did next, just shoved up the filmy material and jammed his cock into her, holding tight and still over her, his hands on either side of her head, pressing the pillow down into flatness.

She gasped when he entered her, her hips trembling underneath him, and her hands came up to frame his face.

"I love you so much," she whispered, brushing at the corners of his eyes, and he realised she was wiping away tears.

"All right," he said, and still held completely still within her body. Her muscles softly throbbed around him. "If you think—if you want—God, Jess, don't ever leave me," he said, and he didn't care if it was pathetic or stupid. Didn't care if she thought he was a pussy for begging her to stay—as long as she stayed.

Her hands trailed down his cheeks, over his unshaven jaw, and down to his pecs, flattening her palms against him, thumbs barely meeting in the middle.

"I don't know why you think I'd want to leave you," she said, and with those words she canted her hips up, forcing him in deeper, and still holding his gaze with her own.

Sam dropped his head down, unable to look her in the eye any more. He jerked out of her and rolled away, falling onto the bed next to her, the weight of his body making the bed bounce.

"I've never had this," he said in a rare moment of utter honesty. "Never been this complacent—it's stupid."

"It's not stupid to have peace," Jess said, and she would know, because she always seemed like her inner peace was unshakeable. Like she had a foundation that was completely impervious to everything. "Or to give in to love, Sam."

He thought of Sammy and missed Dean suddenly so much that he ached with it, a painful band of tightness in his chest. He couldn't look at Jess, but her clever fingers scooted down over his skin and found his dick, and she wrapped a hand around the erection that had not abated.

"Sam," she said. "Sam."

He blinked and looked up and she was on her knees, staring down at him.

"You were a million miles away," she said. "Where do you go, baby?"

He smiled at her, and he knew it was probably unconvincing, tinged with sadness, and came all over her hand, barely even breaking a sweat. It should've been more earth-shaking than that, should've felt like he was exploding into something new, bursting out of the chrysalis, but it wasn't anything that dramatic.

Just the feel of her hands and he was gone, Dean being whisked away by her touch, and he looked at her.

"No place," he said. It was almost the truth, because he'd decided long ago that those places, those foreign countries now where he'd consigned Dad and Dean, never felt real any more. "You're the only one who's real," Sam said, tongue loosened by recent orgasm and exhaustion. He sat up and grabbed for her, burying her against him. "I do love you. I do."

Somewhere he recognised he sounded like Dean when he said it, like he was trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to convince Jess, but he also knew it to be the truth.

He'd never loved anyone quite like he did her, had never quite known what it could be like, to feel normal.

"Don't go to that place any more, baby," she said. "It makes you melancholy. Unhappy. Why won't you let yourself be happy, Sam?"

"I am happy," he said against her neck.

She didn't speak. But he could feel her, every inch of her, against him; he soaked in the feeling and tried to hold onto it.

"A little boy would be nice," he said. He carefully lowered them both back to the bed. "One step at a time, babe," he said. "We've only just moved into our first apartment together."

"It was just a thought," she said, and she was slurring her words from being almost asleep. He kissed the side of her face.

"It's a nice thought," he murmured. He could feel her breathing even out as she lay against him. He thought about going to sleep—he had class in the morning—but he wound up lying awake, relishing the peace she aroused in him as he held her. Allowing himself—for just a moment—to indulge in the idea of having her forever, of having a family with her.

It was a shame it was impossible.

"Do we have enough money saved up yet?" Jess asked one morning, coming into his room wearing only his favourite plaid button-down shirt and with his toothbrush in her mouth. He wrinkled his nose; not like Dean hadn't used his toothbrush more than once, but his brother always did it to annoy him, which meant that even though Jess was just borrowing it because hers was across the campus in another dorm, it still irritated him. Not that he'd ever tell her that—discretion was the better part of valour. Well, actually, it was more like she'd probably poke at it like a scabbed-over wound until he admitted that Dean used to do that, and then she'd find out he had a brother he never talked about.

"Not quite yet," he said. "And you know I'll tell you when we do."

She took the toothbrush out of her mouth and gestured with it. "I know, but I'm impatient. Sam, I wanna get the hell out of the dorms and start, you know, living our life."

Sam buried his head beneath the pillows, speaking through a mouthful of fabric. "You could never be a doctor," he said. "You have no patience." It was, unfortunately, rather like the sort of stupid joke Dean would make.

"Oh, wow, that was so funny, Sam," she said, and started flinging pillows off the bed until she uncovered his face. She bent over and licked his earlobe, making him shiver, before poking him between the ribs. "C'mon, get up, or you'll miss your class."

"It shouldn't be too much longer," Sam said, giving in. "Maybe a month or two at most." He didn't tell her he'd already started shopping around, because he had a feeling she'd be indignant that he didn't ask her to come along, but he knew her so well by that point that he wanted to surprise her with the signed lease. He reluctantly sat up, and she giggled because his hair was probably sticking up and out in all different directions.

"You know, babe, I'd totally suggest you get your hair cut, but I like it too much."

He reached for a pillow to whap her with, but she tugged it out of his reach. "Yeah, so you can pull all of it out when you come," he teased.

"Shut up, I do not," she said. She got up and started walking back to the suite bathroom, her bare legs far more enticing than they had any right to be—and plus, every step she took flashed a little bit of her bare ass. He wondered if she had anything on underneath his shirt.

He called after her, "You'll see, babe. We'll have our own place soon enough and then you can have all the sex you want."

She poked her head back around the wall. "Maybe I just want my own kitchen," she said. "I like to cook."

Sam grinned. He'd never had much chance for real cooking growing up the way he had, and he sort of liked the idea of watching her cook—in that shirt she was still shamelessly parading around in, of course.

"I know the real reason," he said, and she came back around the corner and pointed at him with his toothbrush.

"You," she said, "are going to be in the doghouse if you keep implying all I care about is sex. And," she added, "chocolate syrup is a bitch to clean up, so don't go getting any ideas. I'd rather not clog the new drain in our shower five minutes after we move in."

"I love that we've moved in and we're already christening the place before we've even started looking yet," Sam said, rooting around in the bed until he found his discarded boxer-briefs. He threw them in her general direction and she ducked. He found her panties, too, a light blue satin thong, and he squinted one eye and considered her. She saw what he had in his hands, and she laughed, leaning against the wall and sliding back around the corner, hiding her ass from him.

"Dude!" he yelled after her, hoping his suitemates had already all gone to class, "put some fucking underwear on, you tease! Anyone could see you."

"I'm not a dude!" she yelled back, and Sam only realised his slip-up when she said it, "and I will."

True to her word, she came back in about five minutes wearing his boxer-briefs. Probably his last clean pair. They hung low on her hips, but they actually stayed up, because all things considered she had wider hips than he did and he still hated that about himself.

"You can't go to class dressed like that," he said, and sprawled on his back on the bed, still finding it difficult to get up for the day. He closed his eyes and felt the mattress dip down, but not enough—he was lost suddenly in a memory, way, way back when Dean had been the one to sit on his bed at five o'clock in the morning and try to drag him out of bed for a training session. The warm lips that covered his, though, they were definitely not Dean's, which was a good thing considering Dean was his brother, and he kissed back, feeling the memory fade like a wisp of fog under morning sunlight.

And then slender fingers were encircling his cock, his body still bare under the sheets, and he felt his morning wood harden up even more. When she started rolling the condom down, he opened his eyes.

She was flushing, her cheeks pale pink, her eyes dark, and when she threw her leg over his body, shoving the sheet out of the way, he took her hips in his hands and lifted her.

He lowered her onto his cock, and her head fell back, answering the question once and for all of whether she'd had on anything underneath his shirt.

"Still think I'm a dude?" she whispered into his ear, and he wondered, even as the thought blew away from him, when she'd taken his boxer-briefs off.

"Nah," he said, thrusting up carefully, lost in the sensation of warm heat.

"Ever think about fucking another guy?" she breathed unevenly. He ran his hands down over her hips to her tensed thighs as she began to set her own pace. Sam kind of liked it when she did that; she always went maddeningly slow, but somehow that just made it so much sweeter when he finally came.

"No," he replied, but he was lying. He'd considered it, just once, when he'd been in high school; there'd been a guy in one of the many towns they passed through who'd kissed Sam, and Sam had been so desperate for a friend, for the approval of someone besides his father and Dean—something he'd been relying on for far too long, and somehow it always seemed out of his reach—that he'd even kissed back.

But he wasn't going to tell Jess that. He wasn't even sure if it would make her jealous, in spite of the fact that he'd been practically a virgin when they'd started going out.

"If I weren't this crazy about you," she said, her panting breaths still hot and damp against his ear and neck, "I'd totally suggest it so I could watch. It'd be fucking crazy hot, but—" she licked up underneath his jaw, "—I don't think I'd be able to stand the idea of you with anyone else but me."

He pushed up with his hips again and closed his eyes again, feeling his heart as it sped in his chest, his breath as it shuddered out of him, and couldn't imagine ever wanting to be with anyone else but her.

Couldn't fathom the idea of being this in love with anyone else, ever again.

If Sam had known what was coming, he would have been shocked to learn that he could love someone again the way he loved her. That grief that felt all-consuming could pass. He would've discounted it as nonsense and refused to even entertain the idea.

It was a shame that there was a demon out there that had other plans.

"Remember what I said about fucking another guy?" Jess said, dragging him out of his post-afternoon-class doze. He cracked an eye open at her, and she was kneeling on the bed, wearing her tank and nothing else. He blinked a little and rubbed his thumb over the top of her thigh where it was pressed against his ribcage.

"Mmm?" he said, even though he hadn't really been asleep, just drifting for awhile.

"C'mon, Sam, you remember, I know you do." She pressed a fleeting kiss to his lips, and then slung her leg over his body. He woke up a lot more when her lower body came in contact with his dick, trapped in denim.

She put her hands flat on his chest, palms over his bare nipples, and settled herself carefully over him. He wondered just what she was up to now.

"If this is leading to telling me that I should go out and pick up a guy, I have to protest," Sam said, even as he skimmed his hands up her sides and under her tank. Her skin was hot and thrillingly soft.

"Not at all," she murmured, and then she reached down with one hand and did something he couldn't see, but it made her body slip down just a little bit better over his, and his cock was stiff and pressing against the inside seam of his jeans almost painfully. But she took care of that too; she undid the button and adjusted him, then ground down against him.

He slipped his fingers down her belly and between them, found her naked and wet down below, her dampness seeping into the material of his jeans.

He supposed it was a more pleasing way to get them dirty enough to need another washing.

"All right," he said on a gasp. "I remember."

"I screwed another chick once," Jess said, grinding her naked lips against his throbbing dick. Sam moaned and thrust his hips up, but she pushed him down with one hand. He let her hold him in place. She slowly rotated her own hips, just a little, and he could tell she was getting herself off by rubbing over his dick in that maddening fashion.

"Did you?" he panted, feeling his muscles locking up with incipient pleasure.

"Uh huh," she said, her own breathing pleasingly erratic as she moved over him. "First we made out, dirty, her tongue thick in my mouth. It felt so good, Sam. Such a forbidden thing to do." She pressed down with her hand and her body at once and Sam's dick spasmed inside its denim prison.

"God," Sam said, surprised by how hot he found the whole idea. Well, not entirely surprised; he knew that guys liked the idea of two chicks doing each other simply because Dean had always exhibited such glee over showing Sam pictures of just that sort of thing in his porn magazines. Dean's favourite, of course, being Busty Asian Beauties, which often featured two girls together in the middle spread. Once, Dean had thrown the magazine at Sam so he could see the huge-breasted, completely nude twins leaning against each other, naked shoulder to naked shoulder.

Sam shoved Dean away with all his will and concentrated on how much he wanted to kiss Jess, to fill her mouth with his tongue, to enjoy that same privilege as some faceless girl had done.

"She snuck into my bedroom after my parents were in bed," Jess whispered, putting her mouth right by his ear and speaking so that the vibrations of her voice combined with the heat of her breath gave him a full-body shudder. "And I stripped off her shirt and unclasped her bra, Sam. I had touched her nipples with these hands—" she played with his nipples as she spoke, rolling them between her fingers even as she kept grinding against him "—and I sucked one into my mouth. It was almost the best thing I've ever tasted."

Sam wanted to ask what was the best, but she continued, telling him the answer without words as she slowly mouthed over one nipple, her lips moving against his skin, her voice muffled but still understandable:

"And then she took off my bra, and did the same to me. And it was almost the best thing I've ever felt." Her hands found his and pulled them up, under her tank top, against her bare breasts. He shivered again and cupped her, flicking his thumb over one nipple.

"And I fucked her hard, Sam," Jess said, thrusting down hard and driving herself against his dick, her body convulsing, and he could feel, even though the worn fabric of his jeans, the throb of her muscles as she came; could feel her orgasm soak right through his jeans and onto his dick, and he thought about those words, felt her body still shuddering under his hands, and his body decided it might as well join her.

He shot off inside his jeans, hot and sticky, pulse after pulse of it, his cock jerking against her as the aftershocks rippled through her body.

Jess dragged her mouth up over his chest, leaving a swollen bruise over his collarbone, before nipping at his lower lip. "And I wanna do the same to you."

Sam was floating enjoyably on a sated lethargy, but her words made his muscles tense all over in a different way than imminent orgasm. "You what?"

Jess used her teeth to pull his lower lip into her mouth, sucking on it hard until it swelled. She let go after a moment, leaving his bottom lip tender.

"I wanna fuck you." She rolled off of him, but her hands kept straying over to his bare chest, tracing along the scars.

"What the hell for?" Sam said, but even though he'd just gotten off, his dick was trying to get interested in the idea, which kind of freaked him out. He wondered for just an instant if Dean had ever gotten fucked by a chick.

"Because I want a turn to be on top, baby," she said, and Sam snorted.

"You've been on top," he pointed out.

"Not the same. You can trust me, Sam. Don't you?"

"You know that I do," Sam replied, stretching like a cat as she stroked his skin with her soft fingers. Every so often she'd just barely graze him with her nails, and that felt fucking incredible.

"It'll be worth it. You'll like it, and I know what I'm doing." She kissed just by his left nipple and then hopped out of the bed, crossing over to the dresser, where she opened the drawer they'd designated as hers and rummaged around in it until she produced a bright, electric blue dildo, complete with the harness. Sam swallowed.

"This is Morris," she said, and tossed it on the bed. She must have recognised the expression on his face because she laughed a little. "Relax, Sam, I didn't mean right now. You'll have some time to get used to the idea if you agree."

He poked it gingerly and she crawled back onto their bed, unzipping his jeans and opening them so that the cooler air of the room immediately washed over his dick, which was still tacky with spunk.

She ran her fingers up and down his shaft and he thought, given another couple of minutes, he might even be able to get hard enough to enjoy that a lot more.

"This is crazy," he said. "That's so not—"

"You don't have to do it," she said. "But I still think you'll find you like it."

Sam looked at her, and thought about what he might have done if he'd fucked that boy in high school. Probably wouldn't have wanted to be the catcher, to be honest.

But there was something so thrilling about Jess, something that made him feel like he was right on the edge of a cliff, about ready to hurl himself off of it. And oftentimes, she suggested things that made him take just that plunge, terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

He wanted to think his logical brain had gone carefully over all of the pros and cons when he agreed to it, but instead it had more to do with the fact that she used her nails ever so lightly on his dick, up and down his shaft, and he swelled up into her hand and found himself nodding. "All right. Someday," he acquiesced.

"Awesome," she said, and Sam wished he could ask Dean if he'd ever known what it was like to be on the bottom. He bucked his hips up, not quite wanting to come again but enjoying the playfulness of her fingers, and imagined giving up the control like that.

Okay, so it was definitely thrilling.

Sam rocked into her hand again and marvelled at her unabashed kinkiness.

Sam thought it was a stupid idea. Jess, of course, thought it was brilliant. And, as things often went, she got her way.

Which was how they wound up in front of an altar in Las Vegas in the dead, still heat of August, with Jess standing by his side looking radiant and utterly beautiful in a white dress that was strapless on one side and cascaded down her calves in loose, satiny ruffles on the other side, with Sam putting the cubic circonia ring on her left hand because she'd convinced him of this too much at the last minute for the real thing.

He was twenty-one years old and marrying his girlfriend—the one real girlfriend he'd ever managed to keep—about three days before classes started at Stanford for their senior year. He'd asked her once—long, long ago—why she was in the same class he was when she was a year younger, and realised as she told him about skipping ahead a grade that he should've expected that, she was that smart. Sam rather thought he might've skipped a grade or two had he stayed in one place long enough growing up.

He stared into her eyes—those eyes he'd gotten to know so well over the past three years—and repeated the words given to him. He barely heard her response, because he was too busy thinking about how happy he was, and how crazy it was to be doing this, and how much his father would kill him if he ever found out.

Sam expected him to find out at some point, of course; probably sooner rather than later. And he wondered if John would be angry enough to track him down to punish him for it, even after he'd told Sam to get gone and stay that way.

But more than that, more than just seeing beloved features and knowing he'd get to see them for the rest of his life, he was thinking about Dean. Wondering if Dean would view this as a betrayal—not the marrying-her part, because he was fairly certain Dean would only be happy for him about that, but the part where he hadn't bothered to call Dean even once in the years since he'd left, not even to tell his brother that he was in love, or that he was going to marry her, or that he'd planned an entire future with her that did not, in any way, shape, or form include his family. That he hadn't invited Dean to be there.

He figured Dean would never forgive him for not allowing him to be the best man—or, in this case, one of the witnesses. Amusingly, Candice was one of their witnesses, even though she still kept giving Sam uneasy looks.

But Sam had Jess, and that was all he needed. Was all he was ever going to need, because he'd decided on that a long time ago. Dean had made his choice.

And there was no going back.

Sam's twenty-second birthday didn't start off very auspiciously. In fact, he rolled over in bed to hug his wife and his stomach kept on rolling, forcing him to hit the ground running as he attempted to stall the bile in his throat long enough to get down the hall to the bathroom.

By the time he got there, though, he didn't so much feel like throwing up as he felt like his head was about to split open like a coconut and spill his brains everywhere.

He grabbed for his skull and collapsed to the tile, faintly aware of the moaning that seemed to be coming from his own mouth as he rocked back and forth in pain and—

The first thing Sam notices is that the man has yellow eyes. Poisonous yellow, shading to darker in the centre like even his pupil is yellow. Sam doesn't know what type of creature he's looking at—he's never heard of one that looks that much like a human but with yellow eyes before—and his second thought is to call out for Jess because he's terrified she'll be hurt somehow if he doesn't warn her. He realises his mistake immediately, because to draw the creature's attention to her is probably the worst idea he could have had—and just as he's about to question whatever happened to his hunter judgment, he notices that his voice was soundless. He knows he opened his mouth and yelled, but no sound followed that action. And even as he's waiting for the yellow-eyed man to come after him, he sees another young woman standing between Sam and the man.

She's crying and clutching at her face, blood streaming like tears down her cheeks. Her dark hair is matted down with rain, Sam realises, even as he discovers that he can't feel the rain on his own face. He has no idea what's going on at this point, except that he seems to be no more than an observer in some violent, horror-movie-esque tableau.

The creature opens its mouth and speaks, and Sam cannot hear anything. He'd be afraid he's deaf if he didn't already know that apparently he's viewing this scene as though behind glass, like an animal in the zoo watching a man hit his children without being able to do a damn thing about it.

As he stands there impotently, a man grabs at the woman as though he's listening to whatever the creature's just said; yanks her head back and bares her throat. The man appears human, eyes a proper colour, and nothing funny about his teeth to indicate werewolf, but he bites right down into her jugular and when she screams, that Sam hears—

Sam opened his eyes to the brightness of his bathroom, the ceiling cheerfully painted yellow back when they first moved in, his skull still aching in a residual way that reminded him that the pain was real even as it receded back to whatever hell it had come from. He could hear Jess waking up in the bedroom, and he knew any moment she was going to come padding into the bathroom to take her shower before she got ready to go out and look for a job.

He forced himself to his feet and wobbled unsteadily at first, then leaned down into the basin of the sink and splashed cold water on his face, running his damp hands through his hair. He could remember everything he'd seen, but he had no inkling of what it meant; it was just another one of those weird things that seemed to happen around him, like that time he'd spent three days seeing white spots in the corners of his eyes. He never figured out what that was from, either, despite going to the doctor on his last fifty dollars—a fact that had made Jess worry more about how bad the problem was than complain about the last bit of their money disappearing.

Sam hadn't ever told her about the hustling pool he'd done down at the campus bar to make up for it, either; he'd said he'd gotten an extra few hours down at his job even though they'd been cutting hours all winter.

Sam was just about to take a piss and brush his teeth when he heard his cell phone ring down the hall in the kitchen. He stared down at his hands, and for some reason they flashed red in front of his eyes, dripping as if from blood, and he blinked rapidly and often until the image disappeared.

His phone was still ringing, so he took off jogging down the hall once again, grabbing the cell and punching the button before he even looked at who was calling.

"Sam?"

Sam almost dropped the phone. He might've expected a phone call on his twenty-first birthday, maybe, since it had made him legitimately legal and in less need of fake IDs than before. But he didn't expect this at all: the horrible headache, the searing pain that resolved into some sort of vision—and what the fuck was up with that?—and now a phone call from his brother, the guy he hadn't spoken to in almost four years?

"Dean?" he hissed, trying to cover his mouth with his other hand to keep Jess from hearing. Not that she'd know who Dean was, of course, but she'd definitely ask, since she'd also know Sam had never mentioned anyone named Dean before.

"Yeah, Dad said—" there was a rustling, then the sound of paper being scrunched into a ball, then the sound that Sam would know anywhere as Dean tapping the end of his pen against his teeth, followed by a hushed curse, and then: "yeah, uh, just thought it might be nice to call. Say happy birthday, you know, all that shit."

"You haven't called me in four years," Sam snarled into the phone, still in a sibilant whisper. "What the fuck are you doing? Are you doing drugs?"

There was the sound of more paper rustling, and then Dean snorted, but it wasn't really happy laughter. "Nah, Sammy, you know I'd never touch that stuff."

Sam didn't bite. He wasn't going to get into a reminiscing-session with Dean about the times he'd tried pot, or the one time he'd convinced Sam to try it, too. Though that did give him an idea... maybe one of his friends had laced his drink last night at his birthday party with something stronger, a hallucinogen that caused the horrible pain and the vivid lucid dreaming he'd done. While awake. Man, he was so going to murder whoever had done it. He was pretty sure Jess would help.

"No," Dean said on a long sigh. He was clearly upset that Sam hadn't given him any sort of response he could turn into a taunt. "I just... wanted to check on ya. Call you when you turn twenty-three, little brother," Dean said, and the phone went silent in Sam's ear.

Sam pulled it away and glared at it, furious with Dean for calling and sounding like... like... well, like Dad, all cryptic and uninformative and then just hanging up like he hadn't had some sort of super-important reason for calling if he was going to do it after so long.

For the briefest moment Sam wondered if Dean could've had some idea about the headache he'd woken up with, but it passed as Jess called out from the bedroom,

"Hey, hon? Have you seen my purple shoes? I can only find one of them."

Sam forgot about the phone call and sprinted back towards the bedroom, not really sure why he was in such a hurry to see her, other than to make sure she was all right.

She was smiling a little funny when he came skidding into the room, but other than that, she seemed fine.

"You okay? Did you drink too much last night? I know how much you hate to be drunk," she said, pulling her pantyhose up over her calf. Sam sighed; he'd never get tired of her legs.

The little sapphire she still sometimes wore winked in the overhead light and Sam sighed again, remembering that while she was out job-hunting, he was supposed to be going out ring-shopping, even though she didn't know that. He needed to replace the stupid fake ring she'd been wearing forever; he wanted the ring that signified the love between them to be as real as it was.

He was so busy watching her dress and thinking about diamonds that he didn't even think about Dean's obvious reaction to such a sentiment.

She slipped into her one shoe, clopped unevenly over to him, and wound her arms around his neck, kissing him softly. He pulled back when he realised he hadn't brushed his teeth yet like he'd meant to, and she laughed.

"Have a nice day, babe. And happy birthday."

Sam forgot about everything else but that smile and the sound of her voice. He kissed her quick and hard, smacking her ass as she took off hopping around the room looking for her other shoe.

The rest of the day was brilliant, like sun reflecting off of snow. It heralded even brighter days, ones where he forgot about the pain in his head and the strange waking nightmare he'd had.

They didn't exactly consciously start trying for a baby—Jess was too afraid that if they deliberately tried they'd be liable to feel not only disappointed but guilty, with themselves and with each other, if they didn't succeed right away.

So Jess stopped taking her birth control pills without telling Sam she'd done it, and he gave up using condoms without warning her beforehand that he was going to do so, which led to the first unprotected sex they'd ever had—and that included their honeymoon. Jess still teased about the fact that Sam had worn a condom on their wedding night, but Sam held to his decision, even though he couldn't even explain to himself—much less to her—why he'd done so.

Maybe because they'd gotten married while they were still both undergrads and he'd been more than a little terrified that she'd get pregnant way too soon.

Sam's interview for law school had come and gone, and even though it hadn't been an exceptionally long time, he still hadn't heard anything, so he figured it wasn't going to happen.

He pushed Jess down against the bed with his hips, his fingers in her hair and his other hand on her waist, listened to the punched-out noise she made as he ground down into her.

Her fingers were fluttering against his hipbones, like butterflies unsure of where to set down; he moved and she made another gasping wheeze of a sound. He could feel her all the way into his bones as he dipped deep; he bottomed out and fell against her, barely catching himself in time with his hands—she gave a little cry and some of her hair stuck to his fingers from where he'd torn it out in his haste to keep from crushing her to the bed.

He was reminded, almost involuntarily, of the time that he'd let her take the reins. He bit his lower lip, his hair hanging into her face, his sweat like jewels against her skin, and she grazed the skin of his spine with her hand on her way up to the back of his neck, where she pulled him down and transferred his lip into her mouth.

He kissed her, rolled his hips and felt every minute quiver of her muscles, felt her lips go impossibly soft under his.

She panted, her breath hot and moist against the inside of his mouth, and proved once again that she was more than a match for him as she wound her fingers into the curls at his nape and tugged, and then, when he slid into her again like water freefalling down a slope, gathering speed and pressure, she yanked, hard.

He laughed right into her mouth as strands of his hair were jerked free. Jess was paying him back for his earlier roughness, but he didn't mind.

She echoed his laughter, her body tensing up under his, and he leaned up on his elbows, watched her eyes go smoke-dark as the vibrations from her laughter travelled through her body and into her more delicate parts, and he canted his hips so that the bone of his pelvis ground into her sweet spot and made her eyes squeeze up, crinkled at the corners, as she came.

He swallowed against the pleasure making his throat thick and topped her off again, her body sinking even deeper into the mattress even as it opened up and made dark, sweet space for his.

Her muscles clenched, released; he rode out the waves of sweet agony setting a slow burn in his own body, heard his blood frothing in his ears as her hips came up and her body almost shoved him out; he pressed her back down with the weight of his hips and the movement of his dick inside her.

She still had her eyes closed, her lips shining with a mixture of his spit, her spit, and probably a goodly amount of his sweat from where it dripped off the ends of his hair; he gazed at her and tried to freeze the moment in his mind, this expression, which was so alike and yet so unlike every other 'o' face she'd ever made. He wondered what she'd see when he finally came, and he went up on his palms, flattening the pillow around her head, and his body craved release, reached for it, sought it—he felt his own eyes squinch shut and then he lost it inside of her, pulse after pulse of his dick and the sticky, hot rush of his come as it spread inside her and began to drip back out as he withdrew.

She was watching him when he finally let his breath out again and opened his eyes. She had her fingers down below, caught between them, almost too much pressure on too-sensitive skin and she held them at the opening of her own body, her expression rapt as if she'd never felt anything quite so sublime as the messy, undoubtedly kind of icky feel of his come.

"Sam," she said, and wiped her other hand across his forehead, smearing the sweat there as she swept the hair out of his eyes.

"I love you," he said, though. He didn't know what she was going to say, but he was afraid to break the spell, the first time he'd ever been in this place without any type of protection. It was strangely humbling, and also gave him a feeling of vertigo, like the ground was rushing up to meet him and he was going to hear the crunch of his bones any second.

But she just smiled. "I love you, too," she said, her tone soft and warm. Sam would've liked to stay above her forever, just staring into her eyes, but his arms were starting to shake from the strain of keeping his weight off of her.

He didn't know what was going to happen, didn't know if he was going to make the cut for law school, had really no idea if he was going to be able to fulfil that dream of being a criminal lawyer.

But somehow, the shine in her eyes convinced him that no matter what happened, no matter what he wound up doing or not doing with his life, he couldn't be anything but happy as long as she was by his side.

The day Jess told Sam she was pregnant was the same day he was accepted into Stanford with a full ride to law school. She didn't know that yet, of course, because she'd texted him with just the words great news! and Sam, who had been hoping against hope when she missed her first period, had known instantly—like lightning to the gut—that his dreams were all coming true at once.

Jess had made awesome grilled cheese sandwiches even before they ever knew she was pregnant, but as Sam watched her turning it over on the stove, he pictured her in a couple of years, with a plump toddler in a high chair at their kitchen table, his beautiful wife the beautiful mommy of a little boy or girl, her hands sure as she finished up the lunch she'd be making for him or her.

Sam's mouth watered and he didn't know if he wanted the sandwich she was making or that future, with the baby they'd made together, more.

Dean's the worst older brother ever, Sam thinks as he scrubs ink out of his skin. Dean had thought it would be funny if Sam's brand-new pen, the one given to him as a gift by his older brother, turned out to be a trick pen. It had already ruined his last pair of jeans that weren't either a) too short, b) blood-stained, or c) worn-through at the knees. Although to be fair, Sam owned four pairs of jeans and the only reason he had that many was because two pairs were too short and the third pair was blood-stained from mid-thigh down in a hunt that, while it hadn't gone precisely wrong, had resulted in the monster, in its death-throes, splattering them with blood from head to foot.

Sam mutters furiously under his breath. He's been studying as hard as he can forever, but it's getting towards the end of his high school career and he knows how well he has to do—how he has to be the best—before he can hope to be accepted into a good college.

Not that Dean or Dad knows that yet, of course; Sam hasn't had the guts to start that war. He'd mentioned it only once about a year ago and they'd both given him identical, stricken and betrayed looks. Sam frowns and scrubs harder at his skin. He hates the way that Dean is just like Dad, hates how his brother tries to be just like him, too.

He wants Dean all to himself, at least insofar as he has an ally when he's arguing with Dad, but either Dean goes horribly, painfully silent, like it hurts him to be in the same room with them, or he starts trying to placate them, which only makes Dad bristle and Sam angrier.

"Sammy, hurry up in there," Dean yells, banging on the door. "I gotta piss and you've been in there forever, you curling your hair or something?"

Sam grinds his teeth down until his jaw aches and flings the sponge—the crummy sponge that came with the apartment—in the basin of the sink. He shouts back through his tight jaw,

"I'd be in my room studying except someone decided to give me a gift for my birthday that bloody exploded all over everything."

There's a long beat of silence where Sam infers he's supposed to be thinking Dean is innocent of any wrongdoing, but he knows his brother and he can hear the shifty eyes and admission of guilt even in the allegedly-innocent silence.

"Oh, is that what happened?" Dean asks breezily, as if he doesn't know exactly what happened and why. Sam picks up the sponge, runs it under cold water, smears the ink from his shirt on it, and unlocks the door.

The minute Dean's face is in view Sam pitches the sponge right into his smug, stupid expression and pushes around him, darting into the hall and running for all he's worth.

He hears Dean splutter and curse up a blue streak, and then the pounding footsteps coming for him. Sam's legs are longer now, especially since he won't stop growing, but Dean's still in better shape because Sam's growing has also hindered his training, and it doesn't take more than a minute or two for Dean to tackle him and send them both sprawling onto the hardwood. Dean has inky water still dripping from his eyelashes and there's streaks of blue running down his cheeks like he's been wearing mascara and crying, and his bottom lip, the stupid, pouty thing the girls all go insane for, is also stained blue.

Dean grabs his wrists and yanks them above Sam's head, slamming the bony part of his ass against the floor with his pelvis as he drops all of his weight onto Sam's lower body.

"You're a fucking little bitch," Dean says, still straddling Sam. "I fucking hate you."

"Likewise," Sam spits back, and then Dean's off of him, shooting to his feet and giving Sam his best death glare. Sam clambers to his own feet and backs up against the hallway wall, panting and staring Dean down.

Dean loses it first, as Sam knew he would; he starts laughing and slapping his thigh, knees buckling as he bends in half at the waist.

"God, you should've seen your face," Dean says between wheezing laughs. "Aw, man, you suck. I'm gonna look like I lost a fight tomorrow when I go down into the garage to work."

"What's the matter, Dean, the girls won't want you looking like that?" but even as he says it, he's feeling his own face crack into laughter, feeling the anger bleed away, and he never could stay angry at Dean.

"You're such a little bitch," Dean replies, as if that's some kind of answer. He's looking at Sam in a way that Sam can't quite decipher. "You oughta change out of that shirt," he says, and straightens up.

Sam pushes off the wall and walks over, close enough so that he can smell Dean's breath, slightly sour like he's been drinking too much coffee.

He's not even sure what he was planning, just that as soon as he's that close, Dean's eyes go sinfully dark, hooded like he's watchful, as though he's expecting an attack. Sam would never actually hurt Dean, but something about the infinite depths of his eyes suggests that Dean is truly preparing to be wounded.

It's enough to make Sam stumble back, and Dean's hands go out automatically to steady him, to keep him from losing his footing in the awkwardness of his new gangly limbs. His hands close around Sam's waist just long enough to make sure Sam won't fall and brain himself, and then he lets go, almost as if he's afraid to touch Sam for some reason, when that's never been an issue before.

Sam opens his mouth to ask what the hell is up with Dean, but his brother suddenly ducks away from him and continues down the hall as if they hadn't been in the middle of a conversation, and in a turn that's becoming more and more commonplace, Sam wonders what's going on with his brother.

The problem with the waking nightmares that started on his birthday was that they started to come more and more often, always with debilitating pain and Sam would sometimes find himself keening on the floor of his bedroom, unable to remember how he got there or what had happened, and he could only thank a higher power that Jess had never witnessed any of his episodes.

The one on his birthday had been disturbing and memorable in terms of the fact that when it was over, he did recall what he saw. But a month or two passed before he had another, long enough for him to dismiss the entire thing as obviously someone lacing his birthday drinks and to forget about it.

But he woke up one morning with a headache—the type that felt like his head was three hundred pounds and aching in time with his heart rate—and could remember vivid flashes of the dream he'd been having. He had taken migraine medication and stayed all day in bed trying to conquer not only the headache but the deep feeling of unease that lingered, so inescapable it felt carved right down into his marrow.

Jess went to work, but she kissed his forehead before she left and told him she'd be thinking of him all day, and that had made some of the images playing on a loop in his brain slow and almost grind to a halt.

Sam was actually supposed to start school again soon, to study law and hopefully become the lawyer he'd dreamed of being, but he couldn't help but wonder what he would do if the headaches never subsided; not to only that, but his beautiful pregnant wife couldn't be expected to do all of the working. Sam eventually fell back to sleep, though, and when he woke as Jess was unlocking the door, he didn't remember anything from while he'd slept.

And then the headaches—and the technicolour images—started happening more and more often during the day. He missed class more than once because he'd find himself in some corner of campus, clutching his head, and when he'd check the time he'd be three hours too late for his class.

He thought about going to the doctor, but growing up he and Dean had almost never seen real doctors and that led to an unformed but pervasive terror that if he went now, something horrible would be wrong, like an incurable brain tumour, and Jess was advancing in her pregnancy and he couldn't stand the thought of leaving her alone to care for their baby—with that baby being the incessant reminder of Sam and the fact that he'd abandoned her.

Once or twice he even considered calling Dean and begging him to come out to California and help him, but what could Dean do, other than reassure him—like he always had—that he wouldn't let anything happen to Sam? Sam was old enough by now to know that even though Dean would always be his protective older brother, there were some things that Dean couldn't stall, couldn't stop.

It was November 2nd, 2005 that Sam collapsed during a class and had, what his classmates and professor later explained to him, what looked like a grand mal seizure and sent him to the infirmary.

But while Sam went willingly, this time he remembered everything: the yellow-eyed man, the other young girl weeping, the boy who looked about seventeen pleading with her to step down off the ledge—and the other kid, almost identical to the first, telling her to jump.

Sam watched her jump from his vantage point of impartial observer, at least insofar as he couldn't do—or say—anything to keep it from happening. He saw her plunge hundreds of feet down. He felt his own teeth slice through his lip and cheeks as he beheld the horror that he couldn't forestall.

Only this time, the yellow-eyed man turned from the scene in front of him and met Sam's eyes. Sam couldn't hear what he said, but he found he could read his lips: It's almost your turn, Sammy-boy. Your time will come sooner than you think.

Sam had cut himself off from his family and hunting allies so completely that he couldn't even call them and ask what was going on; all he could do was swab at the blood inside his mouth while in the infirmary and question everything he knew. How did the yellow-eyed man know his name, who he was? What was it almost time for? And why did Sam feel as though the inevitable were, in fact, looming: the train bearing down on him while he stood, unable to move, on the tracks?

He pushed it all to the back of his mind and handwaved it away as delusions he was having because his classes were so intensive and difficult and he was under a lot of stress. He told himself it didn't matter, that it couldn't possibly mean anything.

He made mistake after mistake that he would pay for, dearly, in his own blood.

"Shhh," Sam whispered, trying to hush the baby cradled in his arms. Jess was exhausted, totally worn out, and this tiny, brand-new human being had Sam in absolute awe. Here he was, this perfect combination of their DNA all wrapped up into something so utterly alive and vaguely terrifying.

The baby cried, flailing his little arms, and Sam cuddled him closer, breathing in the scent of him, the baby powder and the way his skin smelled, like nothing Sam had ever smelled before. Perfect. Sam shushed him again, rocking on his feet, swaying from side to side, trying to soothe his newborn.

They had named him Tyler and they had brought him home two days ago, which meant Jess was still recovering from the birth, which left Sam somewhat alone to take care of this miracle of humanity that they had created.

Sam wondered, as his son continued to cry and flail in distress, if Dean had ever felt like this when they were little, when Sam had become Dean's responsibility at six months old.

"Are you hungry?" he murmured, lifting the baby to his shoulder and patting his back gently. Tyler cried.

"I don't know what to do," Sam said a little desperately, but he kept patting and rubbing the baby's back, wondering if Jess had any idea what she was doing with this baby, any more than he did.

What on earth were they doing? This was crazy. This was the craziest thing he'd ever done-

Tyler burped and stopped crying so suddenly that Sam was startled into stillness.

He cradled the baby back in his arms, holding him out to look at him. His eyes were drooping closed, and Sam was swamped by emotion. There was no handbook for this. They didn't tell him, in the hospital when they handed him this baby they'd made, that he could love anything this much.

Sam thought he'd known love, between Dean and Jess. He'd thought he knew everything there was to know about it.

But as his child fell asleep in his arms, Sam realised he knew nothing about love whatsoever.

Nothing could have prepared him for the way he felt, overwhelmed and kind of panicky, because now he was responsible for this child, and he had to care for it and protect it and oh God, but this was his son.

He lowered the baby into the crib and hung over it for awhile, just watching Tyler sleep.

Tyler pursed his little lips and made slightly wheezy baby sounds as he settled in, and Sam tucked the light blue blankets around that impossibly little body.

The baby turned his head and burbled a little as he completely relaxed, and Sam, watching him, felt his heart swell to proportions that ought to have caused it to explode.

This might be the most important thing he'd ever done, creating this child. It humbled him, and he stroked one finger almost imperceptibly across the baby-softness of that tiny cheek, and then straightened up and went back to his room, stumbling a little in exhaustion of his own. It was 2 a.m. after all.

He snuggled up in bed next to Jess, and she mumbled, barely awake, "Does he need anything?"

"Go back to sleep, love," Sam replied gently, filling his hands with her hair. "He's sleeping now. We did something amazing here, baby," he said, but she didn't respond.

Sam had thought he'd known love.

He hadn't known anything, fool that he was.

There's only two months left before Sam graduates high school, and he's been in the same school for a whopping four-and-a-half weeks, which is practically a record. He empties the books he needs from his locker and stuffs them into his bookbag, then slams the locker shut, twirling the combination lock, and starting the trek down the hallway to the front doors that open onto an expansive parking lot where he knows Dean will be waiting.

Sam's actually been in this school long enough to capture the attention of one of the girls in his English class, though so far all she's done is steal glances at him during their lectures and occasionally stammer whenever they both get to the door at the same time at the end of class.

Of course, he knows that his father is actively on the prowl for a new hunt, probably having forgotten that it's almost time for Sam to graduate. He's not looking forward to the giant argument that's going to ensue when he asks—more like begs in desperation—to be allowed to stay in this town long enough to at least get out of high school.

Sam still hasn't worked up the courage to tell his family that he's been accepted into Stanford.

He steps into the bright afternoon sunlight and squints, shading his eyes, until he catches sight of the Impala, looking like she's been freshly waxed, idling in one of the parking spaces.

Just before he puts his foot down off the curb to head towards it, the girl from his English class—Tammy—walks up next to him. She even manages a full sentence without stuttering in nervousness.

"Is that your father's car?" she asks, looking diffident, eyes downcast but peeking up and twisting her long auburn hair in between her fingers.

"Nah," Sam says, eager to get to the car and to get home and start in on his reading for English class. They're reading A Separate Peace and Sam wants to get a few chapters ahead, he's enjoying the book so much. Then again, he doesn't really want to crush this girl's self-esteem, particularly since she's one of the few girls to ever look beyond Sam's gawky, clumsy outward appearance and actually try to talk to him. "It's my brother's car."

She puts her hand up to shade her eyes too. It only takes a minute, but Sam can feel her interest slipping away.

"He's cute," she says, sounding less shy. Sam wonders if maybe he just makes her uncomfortable because he's such a freak. "Hey, do you mind," she starts, then pauses awkwardly. "D-do you mind if I come over and study A Separate Peace with you tonight? I could r-really use some help understanding it."

And that's it, all the confirmation he needs that she just wants to get closer to Dean. Dammit. Besides which, he's not going to take a girl back to the motel and let her see that he's only there temporarily, never mind the mess the motel room is, with papers tacked to the walls, files strewn on every surface, and pizza boxes and Chinese food cartons discarded everywhere. They're really not the most tidy family.

"I can't," he says, preparing the lie, feeling it fill his mouth like a piece of distasteful hard candy. "I don't really understand the book myself. I'm really sorry; I've got to go."

She looks immediately disappointed and Sam gets the feeling she really wanted Sam to introduce her to Dean. He gives her a faint smile, waves a little, and takes off across the parking lot, almost jogging. He's so sick of the type of feminine attention Dean inspires.

He slides onto the bench seat, throws his book bag over into the backseat, and turns to look at his brother.

Dean's got a bit of a golden glow to him, likely from working outside—especially if he was waxing the Impala, as Sam suspects he was. Sam can see why the girls go all gooey over him, but he really doesn't get it, not exactly.

"Hey, little brother, how was school?" Dean asks, like a normal person might. Sam knows, though, that Dean's actually asking if anything weird happened—Dean never stops thinking about the hunt, and he never ceases trying to ferret out any little thing that might hurt Sam whenever he's not around.

"English was great," Sam says. "We're on chapter five of A Separate Peace, and then we're going to read Animal Farm and write a paper on it." This is the segue into asking Dean about standing up for Sam, for once, when he asks Dad to stay.

"I think I read 1984 in high school," Dean muses as he flips on the blinker and makes the left turn out of the school parking lot.

"Yeah, right," Sam scoffs. He whaps Dean on the thigh and Dean gives a funny little flinch.

"Okay," Dean says. "But I did try; I just couldn't get into it, so I got Shana—smartest and best-looking girl in my class—to fill me in."

"Dean," Sam says, working up his courage. Figures he can face down monsters, but the prospect of this impending fight is making frogs jump around in his stomach. "I wanna stay here. And graduate. I know Dad's looking for a hunt, but I can't stand the thought of moving again right now."

Dean glances over at him. "You sure, Sammy? You know Dad's gonna hit the roof if you dig in your heels one more time about moving on."

"Yeah, but, think about it, Dean. Why should I leave when I am this close?"

Dean nods as if he agrees, carefully watching the road. The next time he speaks, it's thoughtfully, as though he's really considered things.

"Maybe Dad will let you stay even if he has to go hunting." He gives Sam a sidelong look. "I know you don't need a baby-sitter, Sammy, but I also know that Dad's going to freak about the idea of you staying alone. So." He pauses and looks a little discomfited. "I can try to convince Dad to let us stay here the last couple of months."

Sam feels a grin breaking out over his face like the sun breaking through the clouds. Dean said us—Dean will do this for him. Dean's actually going to stand up to their father just so that Sam can have the graduation—the normal, run-of-the-mill, everyday graduation—that he's always wanted.

The frogs jump around even more enthusiastically.

"Thanks, Dean," he says earnestly. Not only will he possibly get to have his graduation, but Dean will be there when he finally finishes up high school.

He really can't ask for anything more.

"Daddy!" shrieked Tyler, grabbing for the brightly coloured blocks. Sam plopped himself on the floor next to his four-year-old. Tyler gave him a huge, gap-toothed grin, and began to put the blocks next to each other, one by one.

"Hey, kiddo," Sam said. "How was your day, baby?"

"Watch me, watch me, daddy!" His son assiduously placed each block in a row, five of them, and then began to pile blocks on top. Blue went on top of yellow, and red went on top of green.

"Hey, that's awesome," Sam said, reaching out. Tyler laughed delightedly and careened into his arms, snuggling close and folding up into Sam's lap. The blocks were temporarily forgotten, and Sam inhaled, savouring the healthy, comforting weight of his little boy in his arms.

That lasted all of five seconds before the little terror of hyperactive energy flung himself right back out of Sam's embrace, back to the blocks. Sam watched in a vague sort of awe as Tyler made a pyramid of blocks.

"Mommy showsed me how," Tyler said proudly, even though Sam hadn't asked.

"You're doing a great job, kitten," Sam said, leaning forward, chin on his hands. It still never failed to amaze him that he'd done this, created this wicked intelligent, cheerful, precious little boy.

"Look, Daddy. I maded something!"

"You sure did," Sam said. "I'm proud of you."

Tyler looked at the blocks for a long, pregnant moment, and then looked over at Sam. "I misseded you, Daddy. Why do you go away?"

What a question, Sam reflected, as he opened his arms again. This time Tyler was more subdued as he crawled onto his lap, burrowing in close, and Sam could hear the little slurping sounds of Tyler sucking his thumb.

"I gotta work, sport," Sam said, stroking the long curls. They really needed to take him to get his hair cut, but Sam almost couldn't bear the thought of it.

"I don't want you to," Tyler said, garbled around his thumb. "I want my daddy."

Sam heard footsteps and looked up to see Jess, wiping her hands on the dishtowel. She gave them a fond smile.

"He's been asking me that all day," she said. "Where's daddy, and why doesn't he stay home with me?" She laughed a little. "Your son is way too smart for his own good. He knows where his daddy belongs."

Sam grinned at her. "I love you too, crazycakes. You know why I have to work."

"You do work too hard," Jess said, coming more fully into the nursery. In the crib, the baby fussed, and she crossed over and picked up James, snuggling him to her shoulder.

"I know," Sam said. He kissed those silky-soft curls and cuddled Tyler closer. "I love you, baby," he whispered next to Ty's ear. "I'll try not to come home late tomorrow."

"Goody," Ty said, and lifted his head, thumb slipping out his mouth, leaving his thumb and his lips shiny. "Want you to stay with me."

Sam was still shocked by how articulate his son was, still surprised by every sentence that left that little bowed mouth.

"I would if I could," Sam soothed. He put his son back on the floor and leaned down to look right into those wide green eyes. "But even if I'm not here, Ty, you know I still love you and wish I could be with you all the time."

Tyler looked solemn, and poked at his fat little knees. "Sleepy, daddy," he mumbled, thumb finding its way back into his mouth.

Sam glanced at his watch. Jess had kept them up past their bedtime, apparently, waiting for him. He kept his face impassive with difficulty, but he felt guilty he'd been home so late that his son had to wait up just to spend five fucking minutes with him.

"Come on, kiddo," Sam said, and got to his feet, then picked up Ty. "Time for bed. I'll tuck you in and read you a story."

Tyler put his head on Sam's shoulder. "'Kay," he said, sounding sleepier than ever. "T'morrow I's gonna learn how to make something else," he said confidently, and then his breathing slowed as he drifted off to sleep in Sam's arms.

Tyler had refused a real bed thus far, so Sam settled him into his crib, even though he was really too big for it, and then watched Jess finish changing the baby's diaper before laying him back down in his crib.

With the children asleep, it was just Jess and Sam, almost like it had been before their kids were born.

She came over and wound her arms around his neck, leaning up into a kiss. When they parted, a little bit breathless, she said,

"You really are in the doghouse. Come on, I have dinner sitting in the oven to keep warm."

"You're amazing," Sam said, pushing against her lower lip with his thumb. "I am so lucky," he added, as they left the nursery, shutting out the light. Sam figured that one of them, when James cried during the night, was going to trip on those blocks. ~

It was Tyler who cried out in the middle of the night, and Sam who got up, because Jess was sleeping so placidly that he couldn't bear to wake her. It wound up being providential, because when he picked Ty up, those chubby little arms going around his neck and nearly strangling him, his son said,

"There was someone in my room, Daddy."

"It was just a dream," Sam replied, stroking up and down Ty's tense little back. "No-one's going to hurt you while I'm around, kiddo." He slowly extricated himself and put his son back in his crib. He told him a story—an abbreviated version of Jess's favourite fairy tale—and when Tyler drifted back off to sleep, Sam made a promise to himself: keep an eye on things, even if it meant making Jess suspicious. But what if it hadn't been a dream? Sam could barely get a wink of sleep for the rest of the night after that, second-guessing himself.

If only he had known that his luck was just a year away from running out.

It was just before Christmas that Dean called for the second time in just over eight years.

Sam was still basting the turkey the way that Jess had taught him, humming Metallica—some things never quite slipped away—and listening to the sound of his beautiful wife and his eighteen-month-old laughing as she bathed him.

He was just putting away the turkey in the oven when his cell phone rang. He fumbled for it without looking and, even though he should have known better, flipped it open without reading the display.

Slightly faded like he was hearing it through glass, Jess said,

"Time for the duckie!" and there was splashing that followed, plus the delighted shriek of James, who flailed in the water—Sam could tell because he heard droplets cascading all over the bathroom.

"Not duckie!" he shouted, and Sam said, holding the phone gingerly between his ear and shoulder as he went to wash his hands,

"Hello?"

"I totally need a lawyer." The words came through crackling but no matter how much time had passed, no matter whether he was trying to be sneaky about it, Sam recognised that voice. Like he could forget it.

"What do you want, Dean," he said, and it was barely a question, just the resignation that he was going to have to figure out a way to make his brother go away. He still missed Dean like he was missing every other beat of his heart, but he knew that there was no place in this life for his brother, whatever he might wish sometimes. He couldn't, for example, let Jess ever find out about Dean.

He cocked an ear towards the bathroom and heard only childish laughter, so he assumed she was finishing up James's bath and he cupped a hand over his mouth and walked through the house until he was as far from their full bath as he could get.

"All right, listen up, Sammy. This is important."

Sam growled without even intending to. "I'm not your kid brother any more," he said. "Just tell me what you want and then fuck off, Dean."

"Jesus Christ," Dean said, and Sam could hear Metallica blaring through the Impala's speakers, the rushing sound of wind through her windows as Dean drove. Sam bit his lip; the song playing was the same one he'd just been humming. "I really do need a lawyer," Dean said. "Or rather, Dad does. He's in prison, Sammy."

"Dean—" Sam started, but his brother barrelled right on over him.

"They got him for credit card fraud and grave desecration, and they pinned a murder on him—a shapeshifter, dude, if you can believe that—and the jury just fuckin' ate it up like Dad was the devil or something. I need you to get him out."

"Has he already been sentenced?" Sam asked, curiosity biting through him in spite of how much he just wanted to escape.

"Well," Dean hedged.

"Dean, I'm sorry about it, but I doubt I could do anything. I've only passed the bar in California, for one thing."

"Sam," Dean went on urgently. He even turned the music down. "This is fuckin' important. We gotta break him out of there."

"No way," Sam said. "I am not risking everything in my life to try and stage a jailbreak. You want that done, you do it yourself."

Dean made a strangled sound of impatience threaded through with worry. "Sammy, I mean it. You can't—" he stopped himself, fiddled with the volume dial on the music. It warbled as it slid up and back down. Sam pinched his nose and fought off a headache.

"Either tell me what the f–hell is going on, or leave me alone," Sam said fiercely. "I am tryin' to have a life here. I can't, I don't need—" he paused, frustrated. "You are gonna fuck this up for me," he finally mumbled, cursing even though he tried really hard not to teach his kids bad habits. There was suddenly the ringing laughter of Tyler, and Dean made a surprised, startled noise.

"You baby-sitting, little brother?" Dean asked, incredulity in his tone.

Sam ignored that. "Just spit it out. Just tell me."

"Okay, you know what?" Dean went quiet for a minute and Sam could all at once picture Dean, his one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding the phone, silver ring glinting in the streetlights as Dean passed under them. Longing took up residence under his heart, burrowing into his ribcage like a small animal in winter, and it hurt.

Sam forced himself to wait patiently, even though he just wanted to hang up the phone. To get away from the uncomfortable feeling squeezing through his chest.

"You need to be careful, Sammy," Dean said at last. "Salt the doors and windows and stay away from everyone you can, and I'll be there as soon as I can if anything weird happens."

"Weird? Like what?" He was reminded of the visions, which had suddenly and abruptly stopped, just like they had begun.

"Just do what I say. Fuck. I gotta try to break Dad out, then I'm gonna—"

Sam interrupted. "Don't you dare come looking for me, Dean," he said. He still remembered Dean's strange looks, his tics and every tell. He didn't want Dean around Jess, either; she'd probably fall right out of love with him if she saw Dean.

And Dean would probably try to pick her up.

"Sam—" Dean tried again.

"I'm serious. I don't wanna see you," he said, and lifted the phone away from his ear to push the red button.

Just before he did, he heard, distant:

"Don't forget your training, and watch out—"

And then the phone went dead under Sam's thumb.

Jess walked into the room, which just happened to be their bedroom. The baby must have been in his crib, and Sam thought, looking at her, that she'd put Tyler to bed too. She crossed her arms, and he tried not to let his gaze wander down to her belly, wishing and hoping.

"Who's Dean?" she said without preamble. From reading the expression on her face, Sam knew she'd heard quite a lot of the conversation.

"It's nothing—" Sam attempted, but even though he'd been lying to her by omission for years, he had trouble now with the outright lies.

"Your boyfriend, Sam?" she asked, and she looked—well, she looked hurt and upset.

Sam gave it up; he was going to have to tell her.

"My brother," he said. "He's kind of... crazy. My dad too. It's why I left. It's why I don't—"

"Why you didn't invite them to our wedding, or ask them for Christmas?" she said, and her forehead was less furrowed. He wanted to kiss the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes.

"I don't want them to come into this, this perfect thing we have, and mess it up," he said honestly.

Jess came over and uncrossed her arms, lifting her hand to stroke along his cheek. "I love you," she said, and Sam could feel the interrogation coming. "But why didn't you ever say you had a brother?"

Sam realised, staring down into her eyes and facing that question aloud from someone other than himself, that he really had no idea. He couldn't answer her, so he just kissed her instead, and her hands cupped the sides of his neck as she leaned up and into it.

But when she turned slowly and backed out of it, her expression was troubled.

"I don't know," he said. "I just... Dean is part of my past. That part of my life is over." More prophetic words were never spoken, if Sam only knew how they would apply to his future.

Jess nodded as if she understood, but for the first time, Sam felt sadness slip over him like a shroud. She'd always understood him—like Dean, his inner voice cackled—but this time she didn't. She couldn't. It hurt a lot more than he thought it would, and he rubbed over her flat belly and kissed her hard. It was Christmastime, and Sam had so been hoping that this time, it would take and there would be another baby, but it didn't look like he was going to be that lucky.

"I don't think he'll bother us again," he said, but what he didn't know was that he was going to impose on Dean instead—and that Dean, unlike Sam, was not going to push him away.

Jess, though, didn't look convinced. Or maybe she just didn't think he should refuse to interact with his brother.

Sam slipped into complacence, believing he was just a little bit crazy from the stress and that therefore he was safe.

But that was before he kissed his wife good-bye one warm November morning, slipping a little note in her purse—he did that sometimes, hid notes for her to find that told her how much he loved her—and then tickled his five-year-old, Tyler, and kissed his two-year-old, James, and then, with one final pat to Jess's rounded belly, he grabbed his briefcase and slammed out the back door on his way to work.

Had he only known what was going to happen, he might have been more careful.

Sam was chopping up vegetables for dinner when the doorbell rang. He wiped his hands on the nearby dishtowel and used the knife to scoop the veggies into a bowl, then checked his watch, and started walking for the door.

He was home early and he'd wanted to surprise Jess with dinner, because she was out having a regular check-up on their baby that was due in just a few months. But on his way to the door, he felt his head start to throb and a very bad feeling rose up in his body, like filthy oil floating at the surface of clean water.

He thought she forgot her key. He thought that she'd come in, kiss him hello, and say that nothing was wrong with their baby, which was what he feared, suddenly, with all his being.

He didn't expect the police.

He opened the door and the officer standing there wore blue, and Sam's first disconnected thought was that blue often equalled sadness. He held the screen door open with his hip and forced a smile that felt like it might wobble right off of his face and onto the porch and tumble away.

"Yes, officer? Can I help you?" Sam was less worried about Jess now; she wasn't due back until a little later anyway. But now he was terrified that somehow Dean had done the unthinkable, broken John out of jail, and the police were here to arrest Sam as some sort of accomplice. He didn't know what he was going to do, but he couldn't let that happen.

"Are you Sam Winchester?" the man asked, and in the driveway Sam could see his partner, leaning against the shiny cop car.

"Yes..." he said. "Is there a problem?"

"Sir," the cop said, "you might want to sit down. May I come in?"

Sam nodded slowly, as if underwater and every movement was forced sluggishness, and sought out his living room recliner. He looked up at the cop and his eyes caught on a bottle half-turned away on the little end-table across the room. He'd spent enough time with Dean and Dad to recognise a bottle of hard liquor, even if he knew they didn't keep any in the house, especially not with small children. His mind wandered and he had the breath-leeching thought that Dean had been in his apartment.

But the next words out of the officer's mouth made the world drop away, made Dean dissipate into nothingness in his head. He was free-falling without a parachute, the wind rushing so hard in his ears he could barely hear the words being spoken.

"Your wife is Jessica Lee Winchester, correct? You have two sons? I am sorry, sir," he went on, "but your wife drove off one of the cliffs in San Diego. We recovered the car and the bodies—you need to come down to the morgue with us and identify them."

Sam couldn't think. He couldn't feel his pulse any more—he couldn't feel the cooler air of outside against his skin. Everything was dim and getting dimmer; his head felt like it was weighted by bricks. His stomach twisted and rolled and he tried to think, to process what the man was saying—he was still speaking, but it was garbled like that cartoon teacher on Charlie Brown.

He tried every technique he'd ever used on a hunt when it had gone badly and he'd been breathing through pain so bad he thought he'd die—and none of them worked, because this was worse than that. It was a thousand times worse than the pain of his thigh when the creature had sliced through it all the way almost to the bone with its talons.

This pain felt like that again, like talons slicing through his heart, shredding his skin to ribbons, muscles, tendons—he felt it all like he was dying. He couldn't see the officer any more. He couldn't breathe—his chest went tight and he found himself floundering for air.

He couldn't calm himself, couldn't bring himself back down. Every breath he managed to suck in made him sink deeper into the earth, being buried alive.

Sam couldn't even cry. All he could do was swallow through every click of his dry throat and try to breathe so that he didn't die. So that his heart didn't stop, even though he couldn't feel it beating—it had stopped the moment the words had left the officer's throat.

Words slowly crept back into his brain. Jess, Tyler, James. The new baby—it was going to be a girl, and they had been going to name her Ella. He couldn't—

He became aware of a hand on his shoulder as though his body was coming back to life by degrees, as though he'd been frozen by hypothermia and was just now waking up. He focused his eyes with difficulty and found the cop looking into them.

He heard, very distantly—like if Dean were speaking to him, wherever he was:

"He's in shock."

Sam shook his head and it felt like rocks tumbled around in his brain. And then everything winked out of existence except the yellow-eyed man, standing right in front of him, wearing cop-blue.

"Your turn, Sammy-boy. Shame all the others just couldn't cut it. But I knew—I knew they wouldn't. Had to be you. Wake up and smell the rotting flesh, kiddo. You have a job to do."

Sam isn't sitting in his living room recliner any more; he's standing in the midst of what he somehow knows used to be a field, a beautiful meadow of grass and yellow flowers. It's barren now, a desert. And the yellow-eyed man is laughing.

"What do you want from me!" he shouts, and it barely makes a sound, like being spoken into a vacuum. There's a bright flash of light at the edge of his vision and everything goes black, though he hears the last few words anyway:

"Should've listened to your brother, Sammy. Nothing you can do about it now."

Sam woke up on the floor, his jeans twisted, his head pillowed by a cushion from the couch, and the cops were standing over him, talking furiously and quietly, and one of them was speaking every so often into his radio.

Across the room, the mirror had shattered. The windows, too. Sam felt for his head and there was an ache underneath his fingertips that perfectly marched in time with the pulse in his fingers.

"We're going to take you to the hospital," the first cop said. "Get you checked out; you had some kind of seizure. And then we're going to bring you to identify them. That's very important. Unless, of course, the doctor says—"

"No," Sam said, and his voice was gravelly, his throat rough inside like he'd been screaming. "I'm fine."

He stood up and everything receded. The pain disappeared. He forced it away.

"Sir—"

"Just take me to them. To my family. I need to say good-bye."

But even as he struggled to his feet, even while he walked assiduously carefully to the door, he was making plans. What he could sell off fast. What money he still had saved up. How long it might take him to find out where Dean was, if Dean didn't answer his phone—and he probably wouldn't.

Sam's life had, in an instant, crumbled down into ash like any one of a number of ghosts they'd salted and burned.

There was nothing left of it—except for Dean.

Sam wakes up. His bed is infinitely empty, and the curtains on the window are snapping in a stormy breeze, leaving him to blink his eyes and focus muzzily on the open pane.

Five days ago he was forced to tell the authorities that his wife and two sons were the bodies lying on the cold metal tables, mangled and broken, limbs bent and faces—their dearest faces—crunched from the accident. But Sam could recognise his family anywhere.

He doesn't want to get up, but today is the day he set for his friends to come and look through his furniture and other easily-gotten-rid-of belongings for anything they may want and would be willing to pay for. He hasn't told them why; they just assume that he's moving to an apartment because the reminders are too painful.

But Sam is doing more than moving. He reaches for the bedside table and, in his groggy just-woken state, almost knocks the cell phone to the floor. This is a new phone. This is a phone he purchased, complete with a new number, after the last time Dean called.

Sam had blithely and naïvely thought that perhaps Dean was drunk, sodden with melancholy over their father's predicament. He's of a different mindset now.

He's barely past the funerals and the shock; he's still wearing his wedding band and expecting Jess to unlock the door and come in belly first, the baby that he never even got to meet.

He taps the phone and squints, trying to clear the sleep-fog from his eyes so he can see the numbers. He already knows, though, that Dean will have changed his number. It's all right. Sam can find Dean again—Sam doesn't have to slip very far back in time to sink back into the boy he'd been before the slice of life that, now it's been cruelly wrenched away, seems less like reality than all those years before, hunting monsters in gritty darkness.

He moves the cursor beyond Jess's name and he doesn't flinch, still numb inside and out. He can't feel the coolness of the wind or the spatter of rain the wind brings in through the window from the storm, though the thunder and bleakness of the sky fit his mood perfectly.

He drops the phone to the bed. He doesn't need to see Dean's name; he just has to find his laptop in the untrodden mess of the previous days and start searching for his brother. Shouldn't be too hard to find him, really: look for a news report about something unusual happening, then look for the resolution wherein everyone is baffled but pleased.

And then figure out where Dean's headed next. This he can do by tracking his aliases, each and every one as familiar to Sam as his own name.

Sam swings his feet over the side of the bed. This is a new phone, but he won't be needing it any longer. He's just going to get another new one as soon as he finds Dean—that way he doesn't have to carry any reminders around besides those scratched into his heart like scars. Like the scars that Jess used to trace on his body; the remnants of every other loss in his life.

Sam makes coffee by rote, barely looking at anything beyond his bare feet and the grey sky, and even those things he doesn't really see.

Instead he sees what he's dreamt every night since the horrific news: Jess, swilling down the liquor from the bottle—which is still turned on its side in the living room, the one piece of unbroken glass when he'd woken up from his vision—then strapping their children into the car. Jess driving far beyond the location of her appointment, car weaving as she fought it in her drunkenness. His kids crying in the backseat as they realised there was something wrong with Mommy. Then the car's tires squealing and Jess aiming straight for the bluff's edge—Sam has seen this last bit over and again, every time he closes his eyes.

Jess driving the car deliberately over the side. He can never see, in his mind's eye, the carnage that follows; he doesn't witness the car as it must have bounced down over rocks and the like, but he can hear the screams. They never let up. Even now, the soft burble of the brewing coffee is couched in the sound of his children as they went to their deaths.

Sam is still in shock.

He takes his coffee into the living room, bare feet crunching broken glass into the soles, and oblivious to the blood smearing across what was once a very expensive carpet, he picks up the bottle and turns it.

It's smudged with what looks like a fingerprint, and he closes his eyes, sees Jess's thumb against that place, the mouth of the bottle at her lips.

Sam hurls it at the wall; it shatters with a musical trill that slowly descends back into ringing silence, the noise undercut still with the sound of Tyler and James. He doesn't think—no, he's sure: he doesn't hear Jess scream. In his mind, she's silent, a void where once there used to be a bright and laughing girl who made his life feel invincible.

Sam sits down on the floor amid the glass, still in boxers, and drinks his coffee quickly, insensate to the burn on his tongue.

He may never know what she was thinking. In some ways, that is the worst part: that Jess seemed to have planned the entire accident and he's left with only pieces that don't click together of why on earth she might have wanted to do so. He wonders for an instant if she was still angry about Dean, but that had been almost a year ago.

There's a shard of glass creeping up the leg of his boxers, pressing sharp and insistent against his ass as he moves.

He takes another sip of the coffee. There's at least two hours to go until his friends arrive.

Sam doesn't intend to clean up the mess. He's just going to make a bigger one.

A tiny, obstinate voice in the depths of his craven soul says snidely, just like the mess you made with your life.

Sam doesn't disagree.

Sam fills his ancient duffle with a couple of pairs of jeans and his favourite shirts, some of which he's had since college. He doesn't really dwell on the fact that the reason they're favourites is because he got them from Dean when Dean had outgrown them.

He takes off his wedding band and leaves it on the sink. He packs his laptop in its case and pulls a brand-new toothbrush out of the mirrored cabinet. He drives his car down the bank and makes a withdrawal, then folds and re-folds the bills before stuffing them down into the toe of his shoe—the same shoes he wore onto a bus nine years ago on his way to California.

Sam stops at a gas station and picks up several gallons of gasoline, situating them in the trunk of his car. He goes to the cell phone store and gets a new phone, this one under the name of 'Lars Burton'. He figures that once he's back with Dean, his brother will appreciate it.

He drives back to his—their—house and parks in the driveway, gets out of the car and empties out his purchases.

He waits until the middle of the night, then gathers up the things he's packed. His wedding ring is still on the porcelain sink, and Jess's diamond is sitting right next to it.

He stashes his duffle and his laptop bag in the bushes a few feet away from the house, then walks through it and pours gasoline throughout every room. He's not coming back here, anyway. California is a bust for him now, a sunny graveyard for the dreams he'd once had. At the last second, he makes a detour for the bathroom, before leaving the house and, feeling kind of lame, locks the back door.

The house catches and burns and Sam turns away and collects his stuff, walking down the street without looking back. He walks on battered feet down to the nearest train station and searches through the rows of cars in the parking lot for the ones that look like they've been there longest, then breaks into one and steals it.

Sam has learned a trick or two from Dean, and before he left, he made it look like the car he owned had been gutted by thieves—the license plate stolen—before setting his house alight. He knows the police will suspect arson, but they won't suspect him, because he's learned to go throughout life like a ghost, even once he'd settled down into one place.

Sam fully expects the police to search for him, his tragedy too high-profile to simply let moulder in someone's outbox. But he also knows that without tracking skills far superior to the resources they possess, they will never find him. Hell, Sam is still shocked anyone ever managed to catch his father—and Sam's out-of-practise, but lessons learned at John Winchester's knee aren't easily forgotten and Sam uses his not inconsiderable wits to get him out of the state and halfway across the country before he settles down someplace for more than one night, using WiFi he's stolen, to begin his search for Dean.

Sam finds Dean just outside of Metamora, Michigan. His brother is crouched outside an abandoned cemetery, staring intently into the darkness, when Sam walks up to him; he makes a lot of noise on the road and Dean turns by degrees, as if he's not quite ready to stop stalking whatever it is he's looking for.

But when he sees Sam—and Sam knows Dean can recognise him even at night—he jumps to his feet and his entire body actually shudders. He grabs the video camera next to him, and the flashlight, and he turns both on Sam and says,

"Great, find a spooky old cemetery that people say is really disturbing, and turn around and start seein' shit that ain't really there."

Sam smiles, even though he knows Dean won't be able to make out the expression. "It's me, Dean," he says, and his brother nearly jumps out of his skin.

"Okay, fuck. If that really is you, you think you could not sneak up on a guy hunting ghosts?"

"What are we hunting?" Sam says mildly, as if asking that question will banish the need for explanations. He's not quite ready to talk about Jess—not yet.

"Jimmy Hoffa," Dean replies, and looks over his shoulder at the cemetery. "I hear he disappeared around here somewhere, and, you know, people keep seeing his ghost—"

Sam cuffs Dean on the shoulder, and his brother flinches in a strange way. Like maybe he's still thinking Sam's just another apparition. "And next you'll be hunting Elvis?" he asks.

"Dude," Dean says. "This cemetery? Brick house built right on it burned down. Weird, huh?"

"Yeah, but... it's a graveyard. You should be expecting ghosts. And there's thousands of cemeteries around; why this one?"

Dean leans away from Sam, a if trying to get out of reach. He scans the area again and then shrugs.

"Mostly thrill-seeking at the moment," he says finally. "I'm on another hunt up around here and someone told me about this cemetery, so I thought I'd check it out, see if I could find anything interesting."

Sam walks around Dean and gazes out over the crumbling tombstones. There's a heavy weight to the air, warm and solid, as if the cemetery itself is breathing. He can tell why Dean would think it was cool—Dean's not afraid of anything, and if he doesn't think there's anything dangerous here to hunt, he might spend all night just poking around. Sam gestures back towards the camera.

"See anything?" he asks, because even though there's that strange quality to the air, he doesn't see anything himself. Or he might just be out of practise.

"Orbs," Dean says. "And I was around here yesterday morning taking pictures, and, dude, it was only a little bit cloudy but every picture turned out pitch black except for the orbs—like it was the very pinnacle of nighttime."

"Pinnacle?" Sam asks wryly, and he can feel Dean's glare against his back.

"Not the only smart one, college boy," Dean grumbles.

"Okay, so—" Sam starts, curious to find out what Dean is actually hunting, when Dean puts a hand on his shoulder. He turns around to ask Dean what's up and discovers his brother is actually a few feet away, circling towards the cemetery. Sam shivers and whirls, looking for the source of the feeling, but instead of encountering anything alive, he feels eyes on the back of his neck and is suddenly acutely aware that all of the weapons he'd taken out of storage and packed at the bottom of his duffle are still in the most recent stolen car he used to find Dean.

"Uh, Dean?" he says, and his brother doesn't respond. Sam speaks louder. "Dean!"

There's no response; it's as if Sam is speaking aloud but no-one besides himself can hear him. It's been at least eight years since the last time he tangled with a ghost, and Sam is actually starting to feel disconcerted.

He starts a slow jog towards his brother, but speeds up fast when he can feel someone—or some thing—following him. He comes up beside Dean and his brother looks up, and then his eyes widen.

"Dude," he says, and Sam turns, but there's nothing there. He gives Dean a quizzical look. "Fuckin'—" Dean stops, shifts so that his body's in front of Sam, and Sam catches sight of the shotgun half-hidden under Dean's arm. And then Dean lifts it and aims, though Sam still doesn't see anything.

"What is it?" he says, and the very atmosphere around them swallows his voice, making it hushed and indistinct.

"Fuckin'—" Dean says again, same aborted sentence. And then, "Thought I saw somethin' behind you, comin' up after you. Like, red fucking eyes, dude, and half crouched over with clawlike fingers. Don't see it now, though."

"Okay, I wanna get the hell out of here," says Sam, and unconsciously sways a little closer towards Dean. He should be used to shit like this, but living in sunny, uncomplicated California with Jess and his kids had taken him so far from weird happenings like this that he's a little freaked.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Yeah." He lowers the shotgun and turns to Sam.

Sam is still looking at Dean's eyes—the slight silver of light catching in them from the moon, but otherwise dark like pools of brackish water—when he sees whatever Dean saw, just for a split second. He grabs Dean's arm.

"Whatever," he says, panicked. "If this ain't your hunt and nobody's dying, then we really should get the fuck out of here." It's amazing how easily the curses come back in Dean's presence, how much he can feel Dean as though Dean's heart is beating right behind his own. His brother nods.

"Right, time to go," Dean agrees, and they both take off at a sprint towards where Dean left the Impala, Sam hot on his heels because he doesn't know where Dean parked.

They get into the car, and Sam is surprised by how comfortable and natural it feels to slide onto the bench seat next to Dean. He locks his door and sits, breathing hard, out-of-shape lawyer in ripped old jeans and a sweaty t-shirt.

They hear the rapping at the same moment and turn to look at each other, and something glimmers and moves through Dean's eyes for a second, like a living shadow, and Sam only has a brief second to wonder if that's part of the haunting before Dean heaves a deep breath.

"Sam," says Dean. "You just got me to run out of a haunted cemetery like I was some stupid untrained kid who doesn't deal with the paranormal all the time. Now I feel like a pussy."

Sam looks out the window, way back down the road towards where he left the stolen car. "I need to get my stuff," he says.

Dean turns the key in the ignition and yanks on the gearshift, and the Impala doesn't start.

"Goddammit," he says. "We might be hunting that thing after all," he adds. "Somethin' doesn't want us leaving just yet."

"I'll—" Sam hates the idea of getting back out of the car, hates the fact that he's even returned to a point where shit like this has the power to frighten him. But he unlocks and pushes the door open anyway. "Gonna go pick up my stuff from that car," he says, gesturing.

And the whole way there, he can sense something at his back, keeping pace just a few steps behind him. He grabs his things quickly and takes just a moment to wipe at his prints, even though he's been wearing gloves most of the time he's been driving the stolen vehicles. He can't even see the Impala any more through a slight fog that's suddenly blown up, and he's concerned he'll get lost in it as he walks back towards the direction he came from.

But he finds the Impala again, climbs back into his seat—the passenger seat where he spent so many of his teenage years parked next to Dean—and throws his stuff over the back of it.

Dean tries the Impala again and this time she starts, and Dean drives back down the road away from the cemetery. Sam looks back only once, and red eyes track them all the way down the road.

"So," Dean says when they get back to the M-21 Motel. The proprietor sees them walk down the cracked sidewalk to Dean's room and raises his eyebrow, and Sam sort of sighs. It's not unusual to get weird looks when they're together, but he still doesn't get why they get those looks.

Dean starts unpacking his duffle and rummaging through looking for what Sam hopes is clean clothes. His brother smells like cemetery and ozone, and Sam wishes that he had his washer and dryer again just long enough to be wistful before he pictures Jess at the dryer, folding tiny little shirts and jeans, and his entire chest clenches up, taking his breath and his heartbeat with it. And he remembers the fact that his appliances burned before he even got completely out of Palo Alto.

"There's this road," Dean continues. Sam nods distractedly; he's still trying to banish thoughts of Jess smiling at him as she does the laundry that he didn't get around to doing because he was too busy taking his work home.

"There always is," Sam comments dryly. He plops down onto the double bed and wonders for the first time where he's going to sleep, especially since Dean's been kind of twitchy since he showed up. His brother heads for the bathroom, but he leaves the door open even as he's pissing, the sound of it ringing against the bowl, as he goes on,

"Yeah, well, Morrow Road. It's haunted, the locals say; some chick and her baby were murdered, and sometimes, if you drive down that road at night, in the morning the police find your car, but they don't find you. And they never find you."

"Sounds like our type of thing," Sam remarks, surprised by how easy it is to fall back into line, like slipping into his old shoes had been.

"Yeah, I know. I'm not sure exactly what we're dealing with, but I figure it's a coupla ghosts and some haunting and burning ought to clear up the problem. Happens every few months, the locals say. All of a sudden there will be a rash of disappearances, and then it stops."

"So..." Sam starts, listening as his brother starts running the water in the sink and, from the sound of it, splashing it on his face, "how will we know if we've stopped it?"

"Because I did my homework," Dean says, louder to be heard over the water. "You weren't the only one who knew how to do homework," he adds a little spitefully.

"And?"

"And the last few disappearances were a few months ago, up until recently; there's been exactly one, a woman named Mara Gillian, and so it's starting up again. We find the bones, we salt 'em and burn 'em, and then we hang out a couple of nights and see if anyone else goes missing. And if no-one does, we move on, and then keep an ear to the ground in the future just in case."

"Sounds like fun," Sam says, sluggishly as he collapses backward onto the bed and starts to fall asleep. He'd driven for hours to find Dean, most of it in the middle of nowhere, Michigan.

Dean comes out of the bathroom towelling his face. "Dude," he says indignantly, "that's my bed."

"So come sleep on it," Sam mumbles as his eyes close. But Dean doesn't get on it, and eventually Sam cracks an eye as wide as he can get it while this sleepy and finds Dean on the floor, one of his shirts around his shoulders, his duffle—weapons on the little table—under his head as he lies in front of the door, the salt line visible just beyond his shoulders.

Sam wants to get up and insist Dean take the bed after all, but he's so tired, and Dean always did like to be the martyr and sleep by the door, which Sam figures is what he would be doing if Dean were on the bed, and that has to be the reason why Dean didn't just push him off onto the floor and reclaim the bed for himself.

Sam is surprised he can do that much logical thinking when this tired, but after another moment he's overwhelmed by sleep and he succumbs gratefully to the oblivion of darkness and lack of emotional pain.

Dean wakes Sam up simply by being in the same room with him. Sam's used to someone puttering around early in the mornings, but Dean's routine is different: he showers first, then brushes his teeth, and before he does either of those things, he circles the room checking the windows and the door to make sure the salt lines are unbroken.

Sam is swimming slowly up towards awareness and hears Dean moving slowly through the room; he thinks of Jess first, of how she'd kiss him awake with toothpaste on her breath, and how she'd be in the shower, singing when he finally stumbled into the bathroom. Dean does sing in the shower—but unlike Jess, who could actually carry a tune, Dean's ability is awful, even if his voice is nice enough.

Sometimes, on really special days Sam would get particularly lucky and Tyler would leap onto his bed, dragging James along, and they would smother him with cuddles and kisses. Sam groans before he realises he's doing it and Dean immediately pauses in the room. Sam flicks his eyes open and meets Dean's one-quirked-eyebrow-gaze. It's that funny way his eyebrow seems pointed in the middle when he raises it that makes Sam smile even though inside he still feels like his internal organs are being dragged over a cheese grater.

Dean's hair is spiky but drops of water are still rolling down his forehead, and he's giving Sam a Look like he doesn't even know what to make of him, as if they didn't spend their entire childhoods together.

Then again, it's been nine years, and Sam didn't know what he expected; he does know, though, that Dean's routine is the same as it was the day Sam left. It's kind of comforting somehow, in that utterly familiar way that your entire life can change and yet some things just stagnate forever.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asks, and Sam wants to snap out a retort about how he's twenty-seven years old—almost twenty-eight, Jesus—and Sammy is so fifth grade, but he can't. All he can do is try to fool Dean with a smile that would have worked on Jess but he knows will never, not in a thousand lifetimes, work on Dean.

"Sure," he says, and his voice sounds foreign even to his own ears. "I'm fine."

Dean swipes at the water collecting at his temples and then scrubs his hands on his jeans, standing there awkwardly and still shirtless, with his over-washed gray t-shirt in his other hand.

"My ass," Dean says, and comes over to the bed, but he doesn't sit down. Sam is surprised. He doesn't really remember Dean having boundaries, yet this Dean—this thirty-one-year-old incarnation of his older brother—seems to have found some along the way somewhere.

"Dude," says Sam, and lazily reaches out an arm to poke Dean. It's partly experiment, and when Dean recoils, Sam finds himself thinking maybe he has the plague and he just never noticed. "What, do I smell or something?" he asks, tone sarcastic and angry. Dean shakes his head.

"What the hell happened, Sammy," Dean queries instead, sounding angry enough himself. Sam shudders and closes his eyes again. He can hear, if he tunes out the rough cadence of Dean's breathing, the screams of his children all over again. He can see the spectacular crash in thrilling full-colour. He has to struggle not to pelt for the bathroom and throw up.

He realises after a moment that except for the sound of Dean's breathing and the heater clunking in the corner, he can't hear a single other thing. Dean isn't moving, he isn't fidgeting, he won't be put off. And then his brother says, just a little savagely.

"I call you and you fucking blew me off for years. You better fucking explain this, Sam. You didn't just show up here 'cause you wanted to hunt, and even if you had wanted to hunt something, there's an entire fucking country out there full of evil shit. But instead you tracked me down. Start talking."

Sam turns his head and cracks his eyes open to stare at the wall, which is painted white but has turned an ashy sort of gray over the years. He can count freckles in the paint. He doesn't—he can't speak. And Dean sighs gustily and finally he sort of plumps down onto the bed, right next to Sam's extended right leg.

"I know you married Jess," Dean says, a soft near-gentleness in his tone. "And I'm not blind, you're not wearing a wedding ring. C'mon, Sam, talk to me. It'll help."

Sam figures out right then that Dean thinks he did something stupid, like cheat on her; it's something Dean might've done if he'd ever thought to get married. Not that he would—he thinks hunting is too important. But it's either that or Jess left him, or he somehow deserted her; Dean can't guess at the truth.

"It won't," Sam says flatly. "She's dead."

It's almost worth the pain of having to speak the words aloud to see the stunned expression written across Dean's face. Sam counts more of the little marks and grooves in the faded paint.

"I—" Dean stops. Sam knows Dean wants to offer sympathy, but it's his older brother and he knows that Dean won't even know where to begin. "How?" he says instead, and Sam can feel the shudder wrack him, the tears that ache in his eye sockets even though he hasn't actually shed a single one since he heard the news.

Detached, as if he can divorce himself from it, he replies in a monotone,

"Went over a cliff in her car. Drunk. Don't know why she was drinking, we didn't keep liquor around because of the ki—" and he stops dead, dead like she is. He just can't believe he almost—

"You had kids?" Dean says, voice breathless and pained like he's just been shot. It's plain that Dean never expected that.

Sam can't really hold it in any longer. It hurts so bad it's like someone is skinning him from the inside out, every single thought of Jess or Tyler or James—or unborn baby Ella—rips another length of flesh off.

"Yeah," he says dully. "I had two. And one on the way."

Dean doesn't say anything for a long time, then he gingerly puts a hand on Sam's ankle and pats it awkwardly. Sam hiccups and chokes a little on his dry throat, the clogged feeling of tears he can't cry filling him up to an unbearable fullness.

"Had," Dean says at last. "I'm—God, Sammy."

There's nothing else to say, so Sam doesn't. He just lies in there in a perfect cocoon of misery, unbreakable by any outside force; there's not even a weak spot that could bend and snap to let Dean in.

Dean leaves his hand on Sam's ankle for a long time, not moving, just letting it rest there, gentle, reassuring weight of it. Sam forces himself to breathe and tries not to hear them screaming.

And then he's suddenly in the middle of a field of yellow flowers, which are waving in a slight breeze. Dean's standing next to him, and they're at a crossroads. Sam turns to say something and Dean stops him with a finger on his lips, the pad of Dean's finger rough and calloused and achingly familiar.

Dean's lips turn up at the corners and he leans up, and in. Sam opens his mouth again to speak, and Dean's finger falls kind of effortlessly inside.

Sam is still staring into eyes made vibrant green by the bright colours of the outdoors, the sunshine filtering through them and making them spark like green glass, the little specks of gold highlighted, when everything fades back to the washed-out colour of the motel room and the speckles on the wall suddenly remind him of the little brown flecks scattered across Dean's nose.

He sits up and Dean immediately retracts his hand as though he thinks he's crossed some invisible line somewhere.

"Let me get my laptop," says Sam. "Let's research the fuck out of this road and salt and burn something."

Dean nods, eyes lighting with enthusiasm. "Now that idea I can get behind," he says, and Sam, even as he's putting his feet on the floor, is kind of mesmerised by eyes he's looked into his entire life—yet never quite seen them the way he's seeing them now.

After about an hour, Sam makes a frustrated noise and smacks the table with his open palm. Dean had been cleaning the weapons while Sam searched, and at the noise he gets to his feet and comes over to stand next to Sam; Sam counts every footstep, almost as though if he closes his eyes, he can catapult himself back to his house in California and pretend that it's Jess coming over with his cup of morning coffee as he works. He used to stay up some nights, and Jess would bring him coffee at one in the morning, on her way to bed, with her pretty blue negligee floating around her calves and her breasts pushed up enticingly by the neckline.

"What's the matter, Sammy?" Dean asks, and Sam snaps back to the present, wonders why he would think about that right now; Jess in her negligee has made his dick slightly interested, and he crosses his legs because he doesn't want Dean to see it—that'd just be weird. Really, really weird, like right up there with all of the stuff they used to deal with on a daily basis and that Dean is still working with years after Sam tried to get out of that life.

Sam can't believe the vagaries of life; he's sitting at a formica-topped table with one uneven leg and a rather alarming brown stain at the corner, in a motel in the middle of nowhere in Michigan, and he's with Dean—just like it always used to be—and he'd run as far as he could from this, yet somehow it seems like he'd been running right back into the place he'd left. Like he never left.

"I can't find much of anything," Sam says. "Just stupid legends and shit, and pretty much every single one is different."

"Well, that's not that unusual," Dean soothes. "Pretty much every hunt's like that, Sammy, you remember?"

"I'm gonna need a library," Sam says. Dean walks back over to the bed, and Sam can hear him efficiently strip one of the guns to clean it. Sam sighs and clicks through the webpage he's on, looking for some type of anomaly—besides the usual—that might stand out enough to give him something to work with.

"Wait—" he blurts out suddenly. "I think I found something."

"Yeah?" Dean efficiently strips and cleans a gun behind Sam on the bed, and Sam can hear the lilt of genuine interest in his voice.

"Well, there's a bunch of different versions—"

"Isn't there always?" Dean comments, the metal of the gun scraping as he begins to reassemble it. "But did you find anything conclusive?"

"Okay, listen. There's the story that the woman lived on Morrow Road in the late 1800s, and her baby went missing one night. She ran out into a snowstorm searching for him, but she never found him, and the story goes that they both froze to death. That, though, wouldn't entirely explain the 'vengeful' part—so here's another version. The baby was kidnapped, and his mother searched for him, but she was murdered while she combed the woods looking for him. That would explain why she's vengeful—hey, Dean, is there a pattern to the victims?"

"Not that I could find," Dean says, sounding about as frustrated. "I mean, they vary in age and gender. Both women and men have gone missing."

Sam snaps his fingers and can feel excitement bubble up inside him. "That's it!" he exclaims, and turns in the chair, which makes it creak and lean alarmingly. "Think about it, Dean. Her baby went missing, right? So maybe she gets angry and does the same thing to others, like revenge for someone taking her baby."

Dean sets the gun down on the nightstand—Sam hears the metal hit the scarred table—and comes over, his footsteps this time heavier, more excited.

"Shit, Sam, that makes sense. I think—can you pull up the news story on Mara Gillian?"

Sam nods and a few clicks later he's found the story about how she went missing. It's short, barely a paragraph towards the back of the paper, as if the reporter is embarrassed to even have to write the story. Dean scans it quickly, then lets out a huff of breath and knocks against Sam's shoulder.

"Find the police report," he says, and Sam nods again, fingers flying over the keys, until he finds the police records for Clay Township, even though it's been recorded in Algonac, Michigan. And then they both stare at the page in shock.

"She had a baby," Sam says, amazement colouring his words. "They didn't put that in the paper because they didn't want people to panic, but look, Dean—" Sam points at the words in black and white on the laptop screen.

"A baby boy," Dean breathes, and leans so close to Sam that he can smell the gun oil on his hands and the aftershave on his stubble-encrusted cheeks.

"Yeah, I need a library," Sam says. "We gotta go back, look at the other disappearances. I bet each time there was a baby involved. Even with the men—and that would be the connection. She's trying to find her baby, still, Dean. And wherever these people are vanishing to, she has something to do with it, just like you thought."

"Other versions?" Dean prompts. "We still gotta get to the bottom of what really happened out there that night," he says.

Sam grins, settling back into research mode, amazed at how much he's missed the chance to solve this minor mysteries that no-one else has ever managed to solve—but then, those people don't do what he and Dean do for a living. Did for a living. Whatever.

"Okay, so there's also the version where the kid's mother had him out of wedlock—big no-no in those days—and abandoned him under the bridge on the road; that isn't there anymore, though. They tore the bridges down and replaced them with culverts. Anyhow, so the story goes that she left him there, and then was filled with remorse while she was walking back to her house on the road and returned to look for the baby, only he was gone. So now she spends the rest of her afterlife searching for her missing baby."

"And being generally obnoxious and killing people," Dean adds wryly.

"Well, yeah, that too," Sam agrees. "I think we have a good chance of figuring this out with some more intense research at the library."

Dean groans. "Man, I swear, you like get off on libraries. It's not healthy, dude."

Sam whaps him across the chest. "I do not," he says, like he's forgotten that he's too old to be suddenly engaging in childish games again—but then, Dean always did bring out the worst in him.

Sam Googles further and then sits back, saying,

"Okay, so the nearest library is in Imlay City, the Ruth Hughes Memorial District Library. Which is only a few blocks from here."

"Dude," Dean says gleefully, staring at the Google map Sam has brought up. "I think we should totally travel the route from Paradise to Hell."

Sam puts his face in his hands and shakes his head. Dean will never, ever change. Muffled through his fingers, he replies,

"Only you would want to go from Paradise to Hell. I think most people would want to do that the other way around."

"Hey, Sammy," Dean says cheerfully, "you should read some of the other Michigan legends. The Paulding lights sound like something we should check out on the days that we're just hangin' out here."

Sam unburies his head from his hands and peeks up at Dean from under the fringe of his eyelashes. "The Paulding lights?"

"Yeah, in Watersmeet, there's this forest where these lights just show up every night. No-one knows what they are. They don't seem to be dangerous, but it could be fun to check out!"

"I hope it's not 'fun' like—"

"Visiting South Attica Cemetery was?" Dean finishes, and Sam is quite unexpectedly caught up in the joy of just being with Dean, of Dean still able to complete his sentences even after all these years apart.

"All right, Sammy, might as well shag ass to the library and see if we can crack this case wide open."

Sam looks up at Dean where he's standing by his shoulder and grins. "Maybe you can look at one of the medical texts at the pictures," he says slyly, and Dean winces and looks guilty; Sam happens to know for a fact that Dean did that once when they were teenagers and he was bored while Sam did all the legwork.

"It was National Geographic!" he protests, and Sam shakes his head in mock dismay.

Sam gets up from the chair and Dean practically leaps out of his way; Sam pulls on his ancient khaki jacket with the bloodstain just underneath the left armpit, now faded and brown, and then packs his laptop into its bag.

Dean slides his broad shoulders into the leather jacket that Sam recognises as having once belonged to Dad—much like the Impala used to, too—and then he stashes his favourite ivory-handled pistol in the back waistband of his jeans. Sam doesn't grab for his own gun—shining and clean because Dean had made a hurt noise when he saw it and took care of it first—but he does slip his favourite, still incredibly honed knife into its sheath at his ankle, just under the cuff of his jeans.

"Oh," Dean says just as they're on their way out. "We should check into another room when we get back, because I don't think the locals really take kindly to the idea of gay people in their midst."

Sam stops dead on the threshold and half-turns to Dean. "We're not gay," he says incredulously.

"I know that, but you did spend the night in here with me with only one bed. What d'you think people are gonna suspect?"

"Good point," Sam says grudgingly, and he walks back into the room and starts collecting his stuff while Dean does the same.

They stop by the front office after dumping their stuff in the Impala, and Dean says, gesturing to Sam, "Hey, this is my brother; he showed up a couple days early and I need to check out of my room and get one with two double beds instead."

The proprietor doesn't look exactly convinced, leathery face permanently sunk in a scowl, but he hands over another key.

"One double bed and a cot," he says gruffly. "Best I could do on short notice."

Dean smiles, but the guy just gives him the same once-over glare, until Sam says, "Thank you so much, sir, for the kindness," and he loves that it still works; the guy almost smiles and gives them a curt nod. Sam doesn't grab Dean's arm on the way out because he knows it'll look suspicious, and they slide into the Impala and point it towards the library.

Sam realises, as they're cruising down the highway, that he hasn't really thought about Jess for the past little while and the rubber band of pain around his heart as eased a little. He's not sure, but he thinks being with Dean might just be banishing some of the ghosts latched onto him.

The library is a lot bigger than Sam was expecting. When they get inside, there's a huge computer lab, and Sam, while attached—possibly more than is healthy—to his own computer, is excited about the possibility of free WiFi.

"All right," he says. "I think we should hit the newspapers first. See if we can turn something up about this woman, like anything that corroborates her disappearance. I'll take that; you take the search for the other victims."

Dean winks at Sam and takes off towards the computer lab, while Sam goes in search of a librarian to ask where the really old newspapers are kept.

While walking towards the service desk, he spots two little boys running around a table, a couple of years apart; one dark-haired, one blonde, and there's a terrible stab into his heart as he thinks of his own lost kids. His children, who should be with him right now, the ones playing with the toys, running around that table, even if he'd scold them for running in a library.

He spends all afternoon rifling through ancient papers, then scrolling through the microfiche machine, but he doesn't find anything useful. His eyes ache after a while and he's got his cheek smushed up under his hand, slowly falling into an unseeing haze, when Dean drags up a chair across from him and waves a hand in front of his face.

"Wake up, Sammy," his brother says. "I found something."

Sam shakes his head to try and banish the fog, and focuses on Dean's face. He finds himself suddenly acutely aware of Dean's green eyes and freckles again, which is just weird. He can't figure out why he can't stop noticing that, when it's never been something he paid attention to before, and even though logically he knows it's just a side effect of the vision making him notice it, he's creeped out by the fact that his vision drew his attention to it at all.

"Yeah?" he mumbles, still trying to wake up from the microfiche-machine-stupor.

"Every single victim had a baby that went missing too. It's never been reported in the papers or the news, but it's always an afterthought in the police records—I think it's because the police had no reason to think that the baby would be important to why the people were disappearing, which makes sense, because the police don't know how to do our job."

Sam widens his eyes a couple of times to try and get them to be less dry, and to wake up some more. He can see the sun setting through the window over Dean's shoulder, and it's picking out golden highlights in hair that Sam is used to thinking of as light brown.

He forces himself to concentrate on Dean again, almost ready to pinch himself hard to fucking snap him out of whatever this thing is, this fascination with Dean.

"And the babies were all around the same age," Dean says triumphantly. "That piece of information was harder to find, but it was included in enough of the reports that I think we can safely conclude it's true for the others as well."

Sam waves a hand at Dean to show he's paying attention and starts scrolling through the news articles again, and he's just about to roll his shoulders and twist to work the kinks out of his back when something catches his eye and makes him stop thinking of anything but the case.

"I've got something," he says. "I've been sitting here the whole time and I couldn't find a damn thing on a mystery ghost, but I think this is a clue." He motions to Dean, who comes over and reads the little three line notice over his shoulder.

Dean whistles. "Dude, you're like, Houdini," he says. "Who also died in Michigan, by the way. In the middle of his act. On Halloween."

Sam lets the remark slide without comment and just stares a little bit longer, before reading out loud in hushed tones, "This was the first house built on this road. It was a two-story and it belonged to I.C., who had it built in 1829. The house is now abandoned as no-one knows what happened to Miss C., who has not lived in there in several months."

"Sounds like gossip of some sort," Dean says, his breath hitting the side of Sam's face as he leans closer. Sam can smell coffee on his breath, and the slight sourness that comes from not having anything to drink in hours. The thought reminds him of just how thirsty he's gotten while sitting amongst the dancing dust motes and staring at this machine.

"It doesn't mention a baby," Sam says excitedly, "but it gives us her initials! We just have to look a little further back and see if anyone ever reported on her disappearance."

"And she wasn't married," Dean says. "So that lends some credence to the 'abandoned the baby' version."

"If she did abandon him," Sam points out, "it's possible no-one even knew she'd had a baby. Though that does confuse me as to how—"

"The legend of the missing baby got started?" Dean says, finishing another sentence. "That's easy enough," he goes on, and Sam figures it out and chimes in along with Dean:

"The baby crying on the bridge."

Dean grins in Sam's peripheral vision. "Exactly. Not bad, little brother. People heard the baby cry, and they tried to come up with explanations."

"Or," Sam adds, "there were at least a couple of people who knew about the baby, and left behind some kind of information that was discovered much later."

"All right," Dean says, standing up and stretching. "So we find out who she is, and then we find out where she's buried."

"And the baby? How are we going to put his ghost to rest—if his mother never found him, I doubt we're going to find him either."

Dean gives him a wicked grin. "We can cross that bridge when we come to it."

"Very funny, Dean," Sam says, feeling his mouth tighten like it tends to do when Dean thinks he's being particularly clever.

But he scrolls back even farther, Dean retreating back to the chair he pulled up, and Sam can feel the eyestrain setting in, even though he ought to be used to it from all of the legal briefs he read as a lawyer.

And then he pumps his fist in the air, thrilled beyond belief at solving a little bit of the mystery, even though he once promised himself he'd never be doing this type of thing again.

"Isabella Cartwright," he says to Dean, who is sprawled in the wooden chair with his legs open and his eyes half-shuttered. "She was very specific about how the house was built, the two-story aspect especially. And one of the builders was her cousin—and back in that time, she might have had an illicit affair with someone, maybe even that cousin, and when she had the baby, she thought she had to get rid of it. Anyway, this is the news about that being the first house on that road, but now that I know her name, I can probably find out what happened to her. Or at least some mention of something weird happening to her."

"Dude, hurry up," Dean says. "Or I'm gonna be the next person to disappear."

"Jesus, Dean, I would've thought you'd learned some patience in the last ten years."

"Yeah, well, I waited for you to drag your sorry ass back to me, didn't I?"

That remark strikes a strange chord in Sam's chest and he looks away from the machine and at Dean, and there's flags of colour high on his cheeks.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Dean shrugs, but Sam doesn't buy his mask of nonchalance. "Just that you belonged in this job, Sammy, not a fuckin' lawyer. Pissin' people off and makin' everyone hate you."

"Seems to me that this job is just as good at pissing people off and making them hate me," Sam says, trying to rein in the bitterness.

Dean doesn't reply and Sam starts moving forward again, and when he finds the article, he's amazed he missed it the first time around: it's on the front page and proclaims that Miss Cartwright was found underneath the bridge on Morrow Road, dead under unusual circumstances. It was clearly a big story, and a big mystery; Sam scans the article for any mention of a baby, but if the man who wrote it knew anything about a baby, he didn't mention it in his article.

"We gotta figure out where she's buried—" Sam starts, then grabs his head, feels the blood drain from his face. It lasts only the length of time it takes him to blink twice, trying to clear away the pain, but when he opens his eyes the second time, Dean's on his knees in front of him, looking worried.

"You okay?" Dean asks, but he doesn't touch Sam. Sam files that away as being weird but probably to be expected after ten years and blows his hair out of his eyes.

"Yeah, I just—I dunno, had a pain in my head. It's gone now, though." He looks at the screen. "I don't think—" and then he stops, feels like the proverbial light bulb has just flickered on above his head. "She's probably buried behind her house. Or where it used to be."

"So, tonight," Dean says, and for a world-tilting moment Sam thinks Dean sounds like he must when he's about to ask some chick out on a date, but then it passes and he's back in his body again and feeling less like he's off-balance even with both feet firmly on the ground. "We should check out this road. See if we can see her."

"When you talked to the locals," says Sam, "what did they say they saw?"

"Well, this is the really weird part," Dean replies. "I was told to talk to a couple of teenagers who'd sworn to have seen her in the last few weeks, and they said she has no eyes, wears a blue nightgown, and has bloody hands."

"She killed it," Sam breathes, mouth falling open. He closes it and swallows, feels his nostrils flare. "She must've gone a little crazy, killed the baby, and then thought she'd just left him there. Went looking and he was gone."

"You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?" Dean asks.

"I'm thinking the baby's father, whoever he was, found it and buried it. And by the time she got back there—wow, they must've just missed each other. I wonder how she actually died?"

"That's not that important," Dean says. "What makes you think she's buried behind the house? Because I think she's buried by the road. Otherwise she'd be haunting the site of her house."

"Not necessarily," Sam responds, surprised that Dean wouldn't think of this himself, when Dean's the one who's been hunting all these years while Sam went soft in mind and body, at least where the supernatural is concerned. "If she was searching for the baby, and died during the search like everyone claims, then she'd haunt the road, no matter where someone buried her."

"Which means Jimmy Hoffa could still be anywhere," Dean cracks. Sam sighs.

"Anyway, I don't know, I just think she's probably somewhere near the house. Maybe where the backyard is."

Dean gets to his feet with the sound of his knees creaking, and Sam is reminded that they're both getting older, and hunting is a very physical activity. He wonders if Dean suffers from aches and pains from years and years of hunting, and whether or not Dean would ever admit to them; it's strange, though, for him to be thinking so much about Dean. In the latter years of his marriage, he'd finally gotten to a point where he could lock the door in his mind with Dean behind it and leave it thus for months without much more than an occasional stray thought getting through.

"Let's walk to the site," Dean says. "I don't wanna take my car down that road."

"Shit," Sam mutters. "I don't know if I can go with you."

"You got some other plans, in Michigan, that I don't know about? A lover hiding out in the woods, maybe?"

"No, Dean, but I did have a baby. Well, she wasn't born yet, and—"

"You don't fit the profile," Dean tells him. "And even if you did, I'll be there, and we'll both have shotguns full of rock salt; you know how to do this, Sammy. You've done it a hundred times."

Sam sighs again, gustily. It makes the tails of Dean's shirt flutter where he's still standing way too close to Sam.

"Why do I get the feeling I'm going to wind up injured," he asks the room at large, and Dean quirks his lips.

"If you do, you know I'll take care of you," he reminds Sam, and they start to gather up their things.

Sam thought he'd be spending all of his time trying to banish memories of Jess, but instead he's constantly getting distracted by Dean.

He wonders what it all means.

Sam is shivering a lot in the wintery Michigan air; it's mid-December, and Sam can feel every breath of the cold wind as it slices through his thin jacket and abrades his skin. He's too used to the mild weather of California, where the sun would shimmer over the hills and the blacktop would heat beneath his shoes even in the cooler months. He shivers again and wishes he still had the coat with the fur lining Jess had bought him as an anniversary gift.

Peeking towards his left, he can see Dean sitting cross-legged next to him, wrapped in the leather jacket that used to belong to their father; his cheeks are lightly tinged pink and his nose is endearingly red, but besides that, Dean doesn't really seem to be cold. He's not shivering every two seconds like Sam is, and Sam is jealous. Sam is unsettled by the emotion, because he long ago learned that he keeps his darker emotions on a stringent tether, locked up inside on a low simmer that he tries not to acknowledge, and jealousy is one of those less-than-pretty emotions that he hates to ever admit to feeling.

Dean blows into his bare hands to warm them, and Sam wishes he still had the gloves that matched that coat. He wonders why, in all of the years they'd hunted together, Dean never wore gloves, even in the colder areas of the country. Why Dean doesn't have any now.

It's blisteringly quiet; even the whistle of the wind is muffled into almost non-existence, which Sam recognises as part of the eerie preternatural quality of the place, and he knows Dean is aware of the same thing.

Sam is almost afraid to speak, afraid that if he does the sound of his voice will be just as easily banished by the phenomena surrounding them. Dean, though, proves that he has no qualms about disturbing the dead and no fear of anything really.

"This sucks," Dean grumbles, shifting on the edge of the road. He's staring into the woods, and Sam's eyes have long since drifted out of focus from peering into pitch blackness where nothing is happening. "My ass is totally numb."

"Yeah," Sam murmurs. His ass isn't just numb from sitting on it, it's frozen to the point where he's not even sure it's there any more. Even though they're blanketed by unnatural silence, Dean's voice broke through the frigid air like shattering crystal. Even odder, though, is the moment his voice fades away, it's as if that bit of crystal is unbroken again, pressing in on Sam. Everything seems to be pressing in on Sam; he's suddenly struggling to breathe, and the air that reaches his lungs sears it with stunning coldness. He tries to move, unconsciously leaning towards Dean, and the atmosphere around him moves with him like he's trapped inside a fluid bubble, contracting and he manages to turn his head towards Dean, eyes frightened, when Dean leaps to his feet in a motion Sam almost can't follow, he does it with so much grace.

Sam tries to speak and his tongue sticks to his mouth as though there's ice on his teeth keeping it fixed in place.

Dean's shotgun is in his hands, and Sam discovers that he can gaze into the woods again, that, in fact, it's as if his eyes are drawn there automatically. There's a faint greenish light in the woods now, amorphous and shifting, almost an orb but at the same time shapeless. It's coming closer at a clip most men with their sports cars would be envious of, and Sam wishes he could stand up. He doesn't even know whether he wants to run away, to grab for his gun by his thigh, or walk towards it.

He's not even afraid, actually; he's fascinated by the way the greenish light elongates and moves elastically, until it's a human outline, the edges blurred, and then, just like that, she's in front of Sam. Like he has no control over his own body, a puppet with the strings pulled by someone else, he's suddenly on his feet, and he's looking right into her translucent face.

Her eyes aren't just missing, they're deep impossible wells of blackness that are dripping streaks of bright, bright blood down her face. Her hands are gnarled into claws, fingernails vicious-looking, and she's wearing the light, long blue night dress she has been purported to wear. There're ribbons of blood splashed across the front of it, and as Sam stares, unable to move, he can see the way the moonlight hits and passes through her, the way it makes the blood spatter look fluorescent.

"Drop!" he distantly hears Dean yell, but the sound is swallowed up by her sudden unearthly shriek:

"Where's my baby!"

It doesn't actually come across like a question; it's more like a demand, like she's searching not only for the missing child but the person who killed him. Sam doesn't think she knows—not by this point, anyway, perverted and vengeful spirit that she is—that she's likely the one who killed him.

"Sammy, drop the fuck down!" Dean shouts wildly, and this time Sam hears him more clearly, but he finds he can't move to fall to his knees to give Dean a clear shot at the spirit.

"Isabella," Sam says, finding that he can speak, and even more startling is that her depthless eyes focus on Sam almost as if she can see him enough to communicate beyond simply replaying the same loop of her tragedy over and over.

"My baby," she moans, and her hands come up, grasping, and Sam finds his chest feels like it's being compressed, and he's afraid—

And then he hears the sharp, brutal sound of his rib cracking, and that, out of nothing else, sends him crashing down to his knees, the gravel tearing through his jeans, and the loud report of the gun follows, and she vanishes into mist.

Sam is gasping, clutching at his side, shocked by how easily she snapped his rib. He's barely able to breathe, though the supple confining web seems to be gone.

"Goddammit," Dean curses, going to his own knees and shoving Sam's hand out of the way so that he can ruck up Sam's shirts—and God, that's freezing—and probe gently at his side. "It's not bad," Dean says finally, sounding relieved. "You're going to have a nasty bruise and I'm pretty sure the rib's cracked, but not broken. Should bind it up anyway."

"We gotta," Sam says breathlessly, "still dig her up and burn 'er."

"Not tonight, not any more," Dean says grimly. "I'm taking you back to the M-21 and binding that rib before you do something stupid like shatter it and pierce your lung."

"Not gonna—" Sam says, but Dean wraps one arm around his shoulder and places the other under Sam's armpit, levering him back up to his feet.

"And you're gonna rest," Dean tells him sternly. "Why the hell didn't you drop down when I told you?" he asks, and he sounds vaguely furious, like he'd be ripping into Sam cleanly with the honed blade of his tongue if not for Sam's injury.

"Couldn't," Sam says, trying to manage the pain. "Something was stopping me. I mean—"

"You know what, nevermind. Save your breath," Dean says, helping Sam walk down the road. It's faint, but as they move away from the place where they saw Isabella, Sam thinks he can hear a baby crying.

They hobble down the road to where Dean parked the Impala, and he arranges Sam in the passenger seat like Sam is seventeen years old again, and then pats his shoulder once before flinching away like Sam had done something like reach for him. Sam is starting to get woozy from pain, and he wonders, blearily, if he did try to cuddle up to Dean while they were walking stitched together like they were, and if Dean's angry.

It's tense and silent inside the Impala for the first few miles, and then Dean, almost as if he can't will the words back behind his teeth, says,

"Tell me about Jess."

Sam feels a searing pain trace through his body and he's pretty sure it's not the cracked rib.

"Fuck you," he says, but it doesn't carry the weight of his anger because he's too weak.

"I just wanna know—" Dean stops. "Why the hell you left us and never came back."

Sam's head is lolling back against the seat and he's surprised that he's this drained by such a simple injury. The pain isn't even that bad, but he's barely keeping conscious. Yet Dean's words keep shredding that veil of numbness clinging to his skin. He wants to turn his head to look at Dean, but instead his eyes close, and Dean's next words sound as if they're coming through a tunnel that is a thousand miles away. Like Dean is talking through the tin can with the string that represented a telephone when he was six years old.

He can tell there's something here, something underlying Dean's actual words. Something Dean is saying without saying, but he can't figure it out.

"She was so pretty," he slurs, and that's when he realises that he'd been without oxygen for awhile there too. He only hopes the fog taking up residence in his brain isn't permanent. "Tall and blonde and so pretty."

"Jesus," Dean says, that same distant quality to it, like he's on another planet even. "You're so wasted," he says.

"'m not wasted," Sam mumbles, and he can feel the saliva in his mouth, the blood running along his veins. It's a string quartet in his ears, beautiful and musical.

"Shouldn'ta gave you so much," Dean mutters, and Sam has a split second of perfectly clear recollection: Dean handing him the bottle of water and the pills in his hand. Sam laughs, and the sound of it froths and bubbles and fills up the Impala to the roof, until he can't breathe because the wet quality of his laughter is drowning him. Somehow that makes it even funnier.

Dean sighs and Sam hears it like Dean is singing. He tries to sing along, but the sounds garble in his ears and he stops, going silent. His speech slowed and stretched out like taffy, he says,

"Dad—Dad said never t'come back."

"But you could've called me," Dean says. He sounds vaguely irritated, like he's annoyed that Sam isn't getting the clues Dean is leaving around like bread crumbs.

"I did," Sam slurs again. "Called ya once but I didn't have—didn't have enough—" he gives up.

"I think I'd remember that," Dean says, voice raised and out-of-control, wild and anxious. Sam wonders what the problem is.

"It didn't connect," he manages finally, and it even sounds human when it leaves his throat.

"I still," Dean says so softly Sam almost can't hear it over the symphony of his blood in his ears, "still can't understand what she had that was so compelling. That you'd leave and never write or call or anything. That you'd cut us out of your life for ten fucking years like you didn't want us any more."

Sam is staring at the ceiling of the Impala and the headlights coming down the road keep strafing the roof and it's so pretty. He blinks and muzzily tries to focus, but it's gone.

He's not even consciously aware of the last faint string of curses that follow him under.

Sam wakes up. This time he's in a room with Dean, the bed he's lying on small and kind of cramped for his large frame, and sun is stinging the inside of his eyelids the colour of pain.

He moves just slightly and his body is sore, his movement restricted, and after a moment he discovers it's due to the bandage wrapped taut around his midsection. He has no recollection of Dean bandaging him up, or of putting him to bed; for that matter, he doesn't know how Dean got him out of the Impala and back into the room without Sam carrying some of his own weight.

There is a beautiful clear moment where everything is sparkling like when you wake up after a particularly good day, refreshed and rejuvenated, and then his head throbs once like his skull is contracting inward, and then it sets up the drumbeat of neighbour kids with their cacophonous band next door.

"Mornin', Sammy," Dean says, and Sam blinks his eyes open. That hurts, so he closes them again, and takes a deep breath. That pulls on his bandage and his rib and hurts too.

"Fuckin' sweet hell," Sam says, wishing he had something for the headache the painkillers have left behind.

"No ghost hunting for you today," Dean says. "Or me either, since someone has to keep an eye on your sorry ass."

"I'll be fine," he says, and then winces, noticing how full his bladder is. Great. He's not even sure he can walk and there is no way in hell he's asking Dean to help him piss. That'd be awkward and Dean already acts awkward enough around him, like he knows Sam is a freak even though Sam hasn't said a word about those creepy visions that won't go away.

In fact, with his eyes already closed but the drugged characteristic of his previous sleep missing, he can see flashes of what would probably be a vision if he weren't so exhausted.

The sound of glass breaking brings his eyes wide open despite the pain, and he finds Dean on his feet, his pearl-handled gun pointed, but his eyes are just as wide and startled, because the water glass on the nightstand next to Sam has inexplicably shattered.

In this tiny motel, they don't even use paper cups, and now they'll have to pay for the broken glass. Sam meets Dean's eyes.

"Did I flail out in my sleep and hit that?" he asks, and Dean shakes his head minutely, looking lost.

"You didn't even move," Dean says. "I—I cannot explain that. I don't think—" he pauses. "I mean, I checked this room for EMF when we got in. I salted doors and windows. There's no supernatural explanation for that, but there's no logical, scientific explanation either."

"Maybe—" Sam starts. Then, "I got nothing."

"Yeah, maybe we should get another room," Dean mumbles, but Sam shakes his head, even though it makes his vision swim and his brain feel like it's knocking against the smooth walls of his skull.

"Can't," Sam says. "Can't even move."

"Shit," Dean swears, and lowers his gun. He slowly sinks back down into the chair he'd been sitting in when Sam woke up.

"I gotta—" Sam gulps and works the words around in his mouth, before finally finishing: "Piss. I gotta piss."

Dean looks at him, his face suddenly flushed and he's wearing an expression like he's been caught out doing something he shouldn't, the badge of guilt stamped right onto his features. Sam has no idea why Dean would be looking like that, but he whimpers a little involuntarily and shifts as the pressure gets worse.

Dean jumps to his feet and disappears from Sam's view, then returns with a bottle. It used to hold holy water, but it's currently empty and bigger than a standard water bottle. He hands it to Sam and gestures at the door.

"I'm gonna get, uh, breakfast or something," he stammers, and then he's gone like he's fleeing the plague.

Sam looks down at the bottle in his hand, then back towards the door. Somehow, it's even stranger that Dean would be so damn twitchy about it, when Sam's the one who'd be naked in front of Dean. Prime mocking material.

Not even ten minutes after Dean leaves to get breakfast, the phone rings. Sam grabs it, where it's pressed against his non-injured side, and brings it to his ear, wondering if after all these years Dean has suddenly forgotten what Sam likes to eat for breakfast.

It's crackly when he answers, and Sam might be half-delirious with his throbbing headache and the agony of his ribs, but he can still recognise EVP, and that makes his heart triphammer and vault into triple time. He's not even sure what he's expecting: Dean to be in trouble, Isabella to suddenly know how to make phone calls, whatever. But whatever he might have been expecting, the voice on the other end isn't it.

"Sam?"

This time, Sam's heart stops. It's not possible. It isn't. He saw her—he buried her body. He even went back a few days later and burned her bones just to be sure. And that sucked, watching her beloved features, even twisted with death as they were, burn away to nothing. Which means this is just. Not possible.

"Jess," he squeezes through his tight throat, and it's weak and thready.

"I miss you," she says, and her voice is like a lance in an infected wound. "Why did you leave me, Sam. Why."

He has no answer for her. Between breaths he's back in California, watching her burn, watching the tiny corpses of his children burn, and his chest feels compressed again like when Isabella cracked his rib.

His awareness of his surroundings shimmers like scenery in the desert and he can't take a full breath. He doesn't speak—he presses the button to disconnect, because he can't bear to hear her voice, to hear her ask those questions, but even though the phone drops to the pillow beside him, he can still hear the tinny faraway voice as she says,

"Sam? Sam?"

"You're dead," he chokes out, and the words gouge his throat as he brings them up, fierce and painful like bile. "Why, Jess? Why did you kill them?" It makes no sense, to ask a ghost a question she'll never be able to answer, but he can't stop himself. The phone crackles again.

"Why did you leave me," she repeats. "Why did you leave us."

"I didn't," Sam says desperately. "I wouldn't! You know—I love you so much. I would never—"

"I miss you," she says, and Sam feels like razors are scoring his insides, leaving him bloody and raw. All the ambient noise around him has faded until all he can hear is her voice, pounding inside his head now in time with his headache, as if she's speaking directly into his brain.

"Please," he says. "Please leave me alone."

And the phone goes silent and dead. The silence rings in Sam's ears, and he's breathing so harshly that it's pulling against his ribs, and all he wants to do is be able to get up and smash his fist into the wall, to go running until he can outrun the sound of her voice still echoing in his head.

The ache in his ribs from his rough breathing only amplifies the pain searing through him. It swells and meshes with the agony of Jess's loss and Sam—Sam can't even get up. All he can do is lie there, still hearing Jess, the accusation in her tone, the crackle of the EVP, and he shuts his eyes so tightly it feels like an agony of pressure in his temples.

He's terrified that when Dean comes back, he's going to have to talk about this, that he's going to have to explain to Dean that they have to drive back to Palo Alto and somehow lay her to rest.

But even as he contemplates that, the prickle of other thoughts at the back of his head remind him that he didn't just burn her body, he burned their entire house. There can't be anything left to tie her to this plane.

And then he remembers his children screaming and has the terrible thought: what if they're trapped as well? What if he bungled the salt and burn somehow, locked them here with him? It makes him gag, and he gulps it down because he's on his back, incapacitated, and he knows if he hurls that he'll drown in it and die.

Then again, that possibility suddenly seems less like an untenable alternative and instead, more attractive than it should be.

"Why did you do it?" he screams to the rafters, and he feels the way expanding his lungs that much makes his midsection ache. And as if to mock him even worse, the door opens at that moment and Dean comes back in, carrying take-out bags and looking at Sam like he's lost his mind.

Dean drops the bags on the cracked table and stands awkwardly, his hands in his pockets, looking lost until he finally says,

"You can't think she did it on purpose." He chews on his lips for a minute. "Sammy, you can't. You can't torment yourself that way."

"She never drank hard liquor, and she was pregnant, Dean," Sam retorts, hearing the vicious anger in his voice. He sees, as if from a million miles away, Dean's flinch. As if he struck Dean.

"Still, Sammy. Why on earth would she—"

"I don't wanna talk about it," Sam says. He clamps his lips together. He's not going to go searching for her. To reopen a case he knows is closed. He must've been dreaming, that's all. Had to have drifted off from boredom while waiting for Dean to return, and dreamt about Jess, which is not unusual. Not any more.

Dean shrugs, clearly unsettled, but he doesn't press the issue. Instead he reaches for the food.

Dean has to heft Sam up against a mound of pillows for him to be able to eat, and as soon as Dean gets him situated, he lets go of Sam like he's been burned.

Sam eats mechanically, but he barely manages to force down more than a few bites before he can't bear it any more. He looks at Dean and wonders: does he think it's my fault?

Because Sam is useless, splayed in bed unable to move more than a few inches while his rib heals up at least a little, it falls to Dean to do all of their running around. Even though, logically, Sam realises Dean is probably used to hunting alone by now, Sam still feels like he should be doing something.

It's late and Dean's out, allegedly hustling pool, but for all Sam knows his brother is actually shacking up with some girl. He's been so tense lately, and Sam hasn't seen him go out at night since they reunited a few days ago, so he wouldn't be the least bit surprised if Dean is trying to blow off some steam through sex. It's something Dean's often done, and Sam can't really blame him for it.

But still, though, he's actually a little bit jealous. Not that he wants to go out and have anonymous sex, or even that he wants to get drunk. No, he's actually jealous that someone else gets a bit of Dean's company, particularly now when Sam is basically tied to the bed and bored out of his mind. The only thing he really has to do is think, and so he's been driving himself crazy, brain twisting round and round in circles as he tries to solve their case so that they can get the hell out of Michigan.

He knows, too, that the room's only paid for a couple of nights, and without money, they'll be sleeping in the Impala on the side of some random highway, a fact that displeases Dean simply because Sam's rib won't heal all that well if he's crushed into the backseat.

They haven't talked about Jess since yesterday morning, and they're just as good at ignoring the fact that more than once Dean has had to help Sam to the bathroom. Sam can't shower, either, because he can still barely stand up without wobbling, so he smells pretty rank and he's not about to ask Dean to give him a sponge bath—no matter what they did when they were younger, no matter the number of times Sam or Dean had been wounded and the other had taken care of them, this is different. They're different people now: older, if not wiser. And what worked for them as children—as teenagers—is not going to work for them now. Besides which, every single time there's the slightest suggestion of Sam being naked—for any reason, like when Dean leaves him in the bathroom with the door open a sliver in case he cracks his head open—Dean gets anxious and fidgety. It's fucking weird.

Sam heaves a sigh that pulls against his taped ribs. Stuck here, especially alone, his thoughts keep whirling from the case to Jess to Dean and back again, and frankly, it's exhausting; unfortunately, Sam can't sleep, because when he's not thinking nonstop, he's sleeping, which is a lot.

He turns his head in the direction of the window, eyes narrowed, exhaustion still thrumming through his body even though he's long since left sleep at the last turn-off, and the night beyond the curtains is purple: a stretch of ink-dark sky lit by bad fluorescents as viewed through moth-eaten, dingy curtains.

He's really just staring, not even thinking about much of anything for once, when he sees something move just outside of his vision. He sucks in a breath and tells himself not to panic; what could possibly be in the room with him? After all, he's watched Dean salt and re-salt the doors and windows, seen Dean check and re-check them every time he comes in or goes out of the room. Nevertheless, he wishes he could reach his gun, even though it's barely a breath away from him on the nightstand.

He flicks his eyes back and forth, staring hard into the dimness of the motel room. The lights are off because Sam is supposed to be resting—at least, Dean swears that's what Sam should be doing.

It's too dark to really make anything out, and Sam knows enough about the supernatural to know that even the most silent, invisible ghosts leave a bit of their presence behind through shadow or movement. But it's impossible: there's no way that a spirit could have gotten within the room, not without crossing the salt lines, and it's definitely not human, because Sam would have noticed someone sneaking in. It's not his imagination unless he's going crazy to match up with his injuries—which he doubts—and it's impossible like the breaking water glass once. Inexplicable. But then, all of a sudden, light flares up in front of the windows and Sam squints, almost blinded, and realises that the curtains have suddenly billowed up and out and a passing semi has just strafed the room with its headlights.

In the wake of the light, even with the spots in his eyes, Sam can see that part of the room pretty clearly, and there's nothing there. He's still wary, though, and again he wishes he had his gun, and just like that, something else moves in the very periphery of his perception and he turns his head just in time to see his weapon fly towards him like it's on a wire, landing perfectly pointed in his palm.

Sam stares at it in shock.

That can't be. It's not possible—telekinesis is a myth, at least for humans. The only time he's ever seen it used successfully were with poltergeists and particularly vengeful spirits. And, with his brain going around in another fruitless circle, there are no spirits in the room with him.

He looks back towards the windows, and the curtains are still settling back into place, but scanning the dimness, he finds Dean's shirt on the floor, quite a few inches from where Dean had left it on the back of the chair.

He had been thinking about Dean, right? And then he'd thought about his gun.

Great, Sam thinks miserably. Not only blindingly painful headaches that coincide with visions of some sort of monster, but he thinks about something now and it moves. He has no idea what's fucking going on, but he does know that Dean will look at him like he's a freak. That Dean will think he is a freak—Dean has always levied that term at him whenever Sam demonstrated his high level of intelligence or when Sam remembered some obscure fact, but this time it would be more than a taunt: it would be true.

Sam feels tears fill the corners of his eyes and slams his hand against the bed, forgetting the gun clutched in his sweaty palm. He hears, clear as day, the click of the hammer being cocked and Sam freezes. Very carefully he uncocks the gun and flicks the safety back on, aware that he almost discharged it into the wall and probably would've gotten them kicked out of the motel.

He can't believe, even after everything, that he's so selfish as to cry over this and not the deaths of his family. And that, well, it careens him over the wall he's bricked up in his mind, into the back behind it, the dusty cob-webbed corner that is filled with the memories of Jess he's managed to suppress, and just before he can really think he—

—is standing in a marsh this time. In front of him is Jess, beautiful and perfect and just the way he remembers her from the day she died, before he left for work, only she's still wearing her white satiny nightgown that fell to mid-thigh, her belly round under it. She's smiling and sun seems to be striking off the highlights in her blonde hair, even though where he's standing is murky and dark as if it's dusk.

In fact, light seems to surround her like a halo, and then, slowly, he realises that the light coming from behind her is more of an orange glow, and her skin starts to melt off her bones, and then the image winks and blinks out like a star in the sky at morning.

Jess is replaced by the yellow-eyed man, who is staring out into the distance. And coming closer is a bouncing light, like from a lantern. Faster and faster until there's a young woman standing at the edge of the marsh, her shoes coated in muck, and she's got a flashlight in one hand and a shovel in the other. Sam watches, unable to move or speak, morbidly fascinated, as she turns to look back; behind her there's a dark floating shape that resolves into a man, his eyes closed and blood streaked all over him. She squints a little and the body—it has to be, the guy can't still be alive with that much blood soaking him and dripping from him—lands within the marsh with a splash. The girl grins and it looks manic, and then she starts shovelling dirt from the side over on top of him, burying him under the weight of the soil until the body sinks and disappears.

"There," she says, sounding more than a little crazy. "I did it. I did it! What now? What do you want me to do now?"

The yellow-eyed man doesn't speak to her, and she whips her head around, back and forth, like she can't see him. "Where are you, you bastard? You promised!"

The muck starts to suck at her shoes and she flails for balance. The marsh is taking more than what she's given it, almost like an alchemical reaction gone wrong: the equivalent exchange for hiding the body is apparently taking with it the murderer.

Sam realises, sharp and painful like a bee sting, that he just watched that girl employ telekinesis to help dispose of someone she apparently slaughtered. That he has the same power, even though he doesn't understand how that's possible.

He retches and wonders if this will be him someday, manic and obviously out of his mind, trying to hide the evidence of some horrific crime. He wonders if that will be Dean, bloodied and lifeless, and he's ready to leave this horror behind, to wake up in anguish on his bed so that he can pack his things and run before he does this sort of damage to Dean.

The yellow-eyed man turns to Sam. "I warned you," he says. "I can give you back what was taken away," he adds, silky and persuasive. "I can give you anything you truly desire; all you have to do is what you're told."

Sam whirls, thinking the man is speaking to someone behind him—after all Sam is rarely part of the scene—but there's no-one there.

"I don't know what you want—and I don't really care," Sam spits, "but I won't do it. Get the fuck out of my head."

Sam hears a door slam and—

—he sits straight up in bed in spite of the pain that bursts inside his chest, head whipping towards the door where Dean is standing, his hand in his pocket and the keys to the room in the other. His leather jacket is thrown over his arm and his shirt is untucked and Sam thinks, out fucking, I see, and then his stomach lurches in a way that is very, very bad, and he manages to gasp through clenched teeth,

"Sick," which spurs Dean into motion faster than Sam would have thought his alcohol-addled brother could manage, but there's a little metal wastebasket under his mouth in literally less than a minute, which is just in time for Sam to toss his dinner. And probably his lunch, too.

He gags and keeps retching, and Dean holds both the metal can and somehow keeps his hair away from his mouth all at the same time until Sam succeeds in catching his breath and falling back against the pillows.

Dean sets the wastebasket aside and feels Sam's forehead, which is clammy with sweat from throwing up, but Sam's not feverish. It's a combination of the vision—the horror of it—and the piercing pain that accompanied it.

"Are you all right?" Dean asks, and drops his hand. "You didn't do any more damage to your rib, do you think, Sammy?" Dean efficiently flips the blanket down and uncovers Sam's bare torso, covered only by the tape designed to bind his cracked rib. Dean runs his fingers along the edges of the tape, presses gently against his skin, then sighs and bites his lower lip.

"I'm gonna have to unwrap it and check you out," Dean says. He sounds like it's the last thing he wants to do.

"I'm not sick," Sam croaks through a throat roughened by stomach acid. "I've just got a migraine."

It doesn't stop Dean from going into all-out big brother mode, mixed with his first-aid mode, and carefully probing Sam's ribcage for signs of any further damage.

Sam feels vaguely odd throughout the whole process, almost as if he's picking up on Dean's emotions like his brother's broadcasting them like a radio. And Dean's not just worried—he's feeling something else, too, something Sam can't quantify. It's like Dean is totally uncomfortable, and that's unusual. Dean's never shown any type of unease when it comes to dealing with injury or illness before, and this shouldn't be any different.

Not only that, but his skin tingles where Dean's fingers move across it, and when he looks straight into Dean's face, his brother's eyes are swallowed up by the pupils and his freckles are standing out amid a flush high on his cheeks. A flush that mimics the one left behind on Sam's skin every place that Dean has touched.

"Jesus," he says. "Are you high or something?"

Dean winces as if he's the one in pain and yanks his hands back, Sam's ribs bound again, and pulls the bedspread back up over Sam's body.

"No," he says shortly. "I've just—it's nothing."

Sam wants to poke at the issue like one might open a wound to drain it, but the closed look on Dean's face suggests he would be much better off if he left it alone, so he does, reluctantly.

"You wanna tell me what happened?" Dean asks, sounding angry. Angry like he thinks Sam puked on purpose and made more work for Dean.

Sam squashes the residual feeling of defensiveness—something he always used to feel when they were kids—and shakes his head.

"I don't know," he says. "Just got a headache all of a sudden."

"And this?" Dean asks. He holds up Sam's gun from where it had fallen on the bed when he lost his battle to keep the contents of his stomach where they belonged. "You shooting at something?"

"No, I just thought I saw something," Sam says. "Look, Dean, I'm tired. I think I'm just gonna pass out for awhile."

Dean gets up from the bed and puts more distance between them than is probably necessary. Sam lowers his eyes and he can hear the word freak echoing through his brain as loud and clear as if Dean had said it. There's no doubt, really: Dean's angry and disappointed in Sam, and Sam has no idea why.

Maybe because he froze on the hunt like a green, untried soldier? Could Dean be that petty, to hold it against Sam that he hasn't hunted in so long?

"I'm just gonna," Dean waves a hand at the wastebasket, "empty that. Thanks for that, Sam," he adds, and he sounds less strained and more like the Dean Sam remembers, willing to banter about anything.

Sam wilts against the pillows in his exhaustion. He watches Dean go into the bathroom, tracking him with tired eyes, and listens to the sound of the water running.

But he can't sleep. The vision just keeps coming back up like bad sushi, unable to be forgotten or ignored.

What does the yellow-eyed man want from him? And why him?

When Sam was a child, he had often been curious about what had happened to his mother. Now that Sam is an adult, those questions—and all of the non-answers they generated—have been buried under mounds and mounds of deliberate obfuscation, some on the part of his father's, some Dean's, some his own. But ultimately, Sam understands that whatever happened to his mother, it had something to do with him.

Now that Sam is having visions of some unidentifiable creature, those questions are rising to the surface like a body that, once weighted down, has been set free to float up to the top of the water. And, like that body, it's not a discovery Sam wants to make. He tried his best, his hardest, to forget those things. To consign those unanswerable questions to a place where they couldn't hurt him.

The yellow-eyed man wants him for something. Sam has been trying to pretend that he can outrun that—well, destiny, for lack of a better term. He's been acting like it's not happening. That he can force whatever it is not to happen simply by brushing it under the rug.

But he's been lying, mouldering really, in this motel room for a week, and while he can get up and move around on his own now—and has been able to for the past few days—Dean refuses to let him go anywhere, while Dean himself just keeps on disappearing without a by-your-leave.

Sam's so certain that Dean has turned a one-night-stand into a three- or four-night stand that he finally gets up, wincing as his rib aches, and stumbles over to the window by the door, where he pushes aside the curtain and looks out. The Impala's gone.

He's not supposed to get his bandaging wet, so he struggles to give himself a sponge bath in the tiny, cramped shower stall, continually banging his elbows, knees, and even his skull on the showerhead as he tries to freshen himself up at least somewhat so that when he goes out snooping, he won't stink to high heaven at least.

By the time he's finished, it's probably been at least an hour of washing up as carefully as he could, dressing slowly, and then fighting to get his shoes on without assistance, before he's ready to go track down Dean.

The thing is, after all that, he doesn't have to go far at all.

By the time he gets to the door, hand on the knob, he hears the creak of footsteps on the old wooden walkway that leads to each of the rooms. He peeks out of the window and the Impala is back in her regular spot just under a copse of trees near their room, and even from this distance Sam can hear the engine ticking as it cools—the walls are thin and the night is clear, cold, and quiet. Almost utterly silent, in fact. Sam inhales and keeps his breath still in his lungs for long moments, expecting Dean to come to the door and insert the key. To catch Sam up and dressed and definitely doing something he shouldn't, as far as Dean is concerned.

Instead, he hears voices right outside the room, closer to the window, where he identifies Dean and someone else—someone male.

"You sure?" he hears, and then the very faint rustle and squeak of leather as Dean nods. "All right. Still dunno what the big deal is."

"My brother's in there," Dean says in a hush. "I don't want him to know."

"You don' want him to know, he don' know," says the other man. "But you know how it goes, right, El? Gotta keep this thing quiet anyhow. Not the nicest thing round these parts. People don' like it."

"I know," Dean replies, still very soft in tone. "Got a weird look when my brother showed up."

They move away from the door, directly in front of the window, and for just a second Sam catches the silhouette of what appears to be a very tall man. Then he sinks into shadow and only Dean's visible before he, too, vanishes from in front of the shabby curtains.

Sam can barely hear them now, but after a moment, he realises why: they're no longer speaking. In fact, what he hears are the unmistakable sounds of kissing.

Sam recoils, stunned and out-of-breath, his heart thumping against his ribs, his mouth swollen open from shock. He never really imagined that Dean would like guys in addition to girls.

He undresses in a hurry, snagging his jeans on his shoe as he kicks it off, and then he nearly rips the tape from his midsection in his haste to get the t-shirt off before he throws himself back into the bed, even though he's pretty sure he was too rough with his wounded self.

Panting, stomach turning over in somersaults, Sam considers the possibilities of what he's just learned. Apparently, Dean has been hooking up with a man instead of the hot chick Sam was expecting. This—well, Sam's not homophobic, and he's not precisely upset by the revelation. But he feels kind of like he's just been unexpectedly pistol-whipped by an uncomfortable truth that he's not even supposed to be aware of.

He's terrified that when Dean walks back through that door, the guilt will be scrawled across his face like graffiti on a previously pristine wall. He modulates his breathing with difficulty and distracts himself from his discovery by thinking of Jess, and her questions about whether he'd ever slept with a guy. He pushes his mind back farther, to that guy in high school that he'd liked, and who had liked him.

To that kiss that had been a revelation in and of itself. The kiss that had convinced Sam he wasn't as far on the straight end of the Kinsey scale as he might have liked.

Indeed, while he'd never pursued another guy since then, and while he'd restricted himself to girls after that, he considers himself bisexual in point of fact. Which means he really doesn't have a problem with Dean being with another man.

He just has a problem with knowing about it when he so clearly isn't meant to.

Even odder is the tiny curl of jealousy in his belly. So, evidently Dean had always gotten the girl, and now it turns out he's always getting the guy, too. That figures.

Sam quashes the jealousy and shuts his eyes and feigns sleep so that when the door finally opens, he's not looking straight at Dean with guilt shining in his eyes.

The soft light of dawn is flushed across Dean's features, his eyes incredibly green, his lashes like latticework against his faintly-freckled cheeks. His lips, though, are blush rose, struck with the pale dawn glow, turned into something like artwork against a perfect canvas.

Sam's eyes track down—away from a face so beautiful Sam doesn't know how anyone can stand to look at him and not be utterly dazzled—and spreads his hands into the shape of butterfly's wings across Dean's chest. He can feel Dean's heart pounding, the heat of his skin soaking into Sam's palms.

It's crazy. He doesn't know what he's doing, staring at this lovely creature who just happens to be his brother. But he sees the appeal that all those girls—and guys—go crazy for. The sensual lips. The sexy glint in his eyes. The nipples that are just brushing against his hands, tipped with pink and swollen, begging for Sam's mouth.

He can't imagine what it means. He pulls his hands away, sickened and disgusted. Dean's eyes are still too-bright, glassy—the glint coming from sickness, not invitation; his skin is fever-flushed. Sam has been touching Dean and Dean isn't even aware of it. And Sam doesn't know where these thoughts are coming from. The temptation to skim his palms all over the scarred landscape laid out before him.

To scrape his nails down along Dean's ribs and inward until his hands meet at the vee of Dean's lower belly.

His breath twists in his lungs and he can't help it; he looks down.

Dean is far more naked than he should be for just a simple fever. It's like he's taunting Sam—Sam, who is supposed to be bathing him with the lukewarm cloth and instead, is staring at Dean's incredibly gorgeous dick. It gives every other flawless, beautiful feature on Dean's body a run for its money. Hard, uncut; it's a sight to behold and Sam realises his own dick is stiff and wanting.

He flicks his eyes back up to Dean's lips. He wants a kiss. Just a thrilling taste of something illicit, the fruit of the forbidden tree—his family tree.

He lowers his head, turns his face just slightly, and drinks in Dean's hot breath on every exhale. Sultry heat that spins out across Sam's cheek like a pinwheel.

It's wrong, he knows that. Buried within himself, he can feel the rottenness that is slowly spreading outward and claiming more and more of himself. The darkness of diseased blood eating away at whatever good there used to be. And every time Dean's breath feathers across Sam's lips, he wants a taste as badly as if his very life depends on him touching his lips to his brother's mouth.

He pulls away. There's no time—there's only the feel of that sickness devouring him. That knowledge that he is inherently wrong somehow, tainted in ways he can't imagine. He doesn't know what happened, or how.

He only knows that he wants.

Sam wakes up. He's gasping as though, while asleep, something constricted his lungs until he couldn't breathe. He scrabbles at his chest, trying to relieve the horrible pressure still bound tight against him, making it impossible to draw a breath, and winces and moans a little when he feels the pain start to throb and flare like a sunburst in his side.

He doesn't remember the dream, but he knows it was awful. It's left him with the flavour of ash in his mouth and an inexplicable reluctance to look at his brother where he's still sleeping on the cot near the door.

Sam closes his eyes and counts upward until his ragged breathing evens out again and the pace of his heart slows. He's used to nightmares, but they are usually vivid reenactments of Jess's death, the murder of his children; it's new to have a black cloud of fear descend on his dreams that he can't recall, that he only knows made him want to claw at his skin until he stripped it off. It's like there's blood running down his arms, dripping from his fingers; as though there's cruelty and illness clinging to him.

He tries to shake off the sensation, but it lingers; he tries to remember the dream but it eludes him. There's only a tiny fragment that flutters around his brain like a moth trapped against a lighted window. Every time Sam reaches for it, it darts out of reach.

Sam forces himself to glance over at Dean, and when he does, he feels something squeeze his chest like a vise again. The pre-dawn light is a rosy flush spread out across Dean's features, creating faint lacy shadows where his lashes rest against his cheeks, and putting a sheen like lip gloss across his lips.

Sam cannot understand. It's like he's woken from a nightmare into yet another one. Not because that beauty is somehow dark, but it is frightening. It makes Sam's heart thump hard once, twice, three times, like the sound of a spirit knocking against bone.

He averts his eyes and struggles to breathe, to again grasp at the peace he once knew but hasn't felt since Jess died.

And yet he has the oddest thought that if he were to go over and touch Dean, even the briefest caress across his sculpted cheekbone, he might recapture that little oasis of peace he'd found in her arms. Which doesn't make a lick of sense, of course.

Sam feels like he's swimming against the current, trying to outpace something disturbing and terrifying behind him. Like he can't look at Dean, because it makes feelings well up that he just doesn't understand.

Why this sudden fascination, he wonders again. Why does he notice that colour of Dean's lips or the way a tendril of his hair, as he sleeps, manages to fall across his eyebrow.

The dream is still pounding behind his eyes, in his temples, the beginnings of a bad headache. Like one of his visions, only he always remembers those, even if he doesn't comprehend them.

He presses his fingertips to his closed eyes and lies carefully back down. It's too early to get up, but he's not sure he wants to sleep any longer.

The tape around his ribcage is what he felt when he woke up, he knows that. But it still felt almost like a creature crouching on his chest, crushing the air from his lungs.

And as he slowly floats in a half-asleep fog, he thinks maybe that creature crushing him had been lust, an untenable feeling, and what the fuck kind of sense does that make?

"All right, Sammy, so I know you still need to rest but I also know that this fucking spirit is probably gonna grab another victim any day now, so we gotta end her, you know? I've been out behind the ruins of her house, and I found a few graves, but none of 'em were hers, and definitely none of them were the baby's. At least, not unless she's buried under some other name." Dean is sitting cross-legged on his cot, clipping his fingernails and piling the leavings on the mattress next to him. Sam knows, even after all this time, that Dean will do his toes next, and then inevitably lose one or two of the clippings and complain about it later.

It makes Sam want to laugh, which is an unwelcome feeling with all this darkness sucking at the air around him. Between the dream he can't recollect and the memories of Jess he can't forget, laughter seems like the most inappropriate thing he could do.

"So, what? We're gonna go find her and dig her up, I gather?" Sam stretches, arms high above his head, and yawns hugely. Even with the tape restricting his movement, he's feeling pretty good. The pain has lessened and he's needed less aspirin over the last two or three days.

"You, my brother, are going to help me track down the graves. Then I am going to dig the bitch up, and you are going to watch and not at all strain yourself or your rib. You really don't need to risk breaking it, puncturing your lung, and bleeding to death."

"Christ, Dean, I'm not an idiot." Laughter gives way to annoyance, and Dean salutes him with the toenail clippers and a raised eyebrow.

"I know you. Once I've got her uncovered, you can help if you like by pouring salt and accelerant over the bones. I'll light 'er up, but that's just because last thing we need is you doing something like lighting yourself on fire."

"Dean!" Sam says, only faintly ashamed of the way the tail-end of Dean's name twists up into a whine. "I once covered myself in lighter fluid—accidentally, the damn ghost pushed me onto the remains—and I still didn't set myself on fire! Jesus Christ."

"Now that's a story you're gonna have to tell me sometime," Dean remarks as he begins on his toes. Sam knows that after he cuts them all, he'll file them smooth. It's another thing he remembers. Just like he remembers how John always told them to keep their nails short so they didn't get ripped off during a hunt.

Dean's words register then, and he realises he never told Dean about that hunt at Stanford his freshman year. He's not really sure he wants to talk about it now. Knowing Dean, his brother will never let him live down the fact that he willingly hunted something even after he'd sworn off of it.

"Maybe later," he says evasively. "Look, if she doesn't have a headstone, we'll be there all nighr digging up the whole yard. And the cops will probably arrest us."

"Well," says Dean, "I did find wormwood growing wild out behind the last string of graves. And you know what that means."

"Then you already found her."

"Maybe. But I saw a lot of it. And I wanted your opinion on where you thought I should start digging first."

That's a lie, Sam realises at once. Dean knows where to dig, he just wants Sam to feel useful, since it's Sam's fault they haven't finished this hunt and moved on already. He appreciates the sentiment, but at the same time he loathes the way it makes him feel, that Dean is lying to him, patronising him, just because he was a fucking idiot.

"Look," he says. "I know I was a goddamn idiot back there and let myself get hurt. But you don't need to act like you don't know that. And if we find the baby's grave, I can dig that one. It'll be smaller and—"

The sound of the nailclippers fades away and Sam glances up, finds Dean staring at him. Green eyes wide, and far too pretty with the way his eyelashes fan out away from them. Sam examines the thought curiously, as though it's a clue, then lets it go. It's not important right now.

"You didn't let yourself get hurt, Sammy. She whammied you. For fuck's sake, could you be a little harder on yourself?"

All at once Sam knows Dean is talking about Jess. That Dean thinks Sam blames himself. And the horrible truth is, Sam does.

"Whatever. I'll do whatever you want."

Dean throws the toenail clippers at the wall, where they strike sharp edge first and leave a nick in the paint and the drywall underneath.

"I didn't ask you to just take orders from me," Dean says, angry. "I just don't want you to hurt yourself any more."

Sam turns his head away from Dean. "Let me dig the baby's grave."

"No," Dean says succinctly.

"Then you are giving me orders." Sam remembers this, too; the constant directives from both his father and Dean until he got old enough and big enough to fight them, to loom over them both and glower until John stopped shouting and Dean stopped trying to placate. Sam got his way back then. But this is like going through adolescence all over again: Dean giving orders, Sam expected to blindly follow them the same way that Dean always did whenever John was the one in charge.

"Sam," Dean says, dangerously quiet, "either you don't strain yourself, or you stay here, in that bed, and don't move 'til I get back."

"Fine." Sam can feel the pout stretching his lips, the petulant posture that Dean is well-used to, and he knows that someday they have to learn how to be adults with each other, and not simply the baby brother reliant on his older brother to know what's best and to protect him. Dean can't protect him any more.

Sam couldn't even protect Jess, and he didn't even know he had to. Maybe she'd been depressed and Sam, too wrapped up in everything, just hadn't noticed. Maybe if he had only noticed, he could have done something.

"I want you with me because I don't trust that spirit," Dean says softly. "I don't know how she'd manage it, but I worry every time that I leave that I'll come back to find you bloody in that bed. Or worse, just gone and I'll never see you again."

Sam whips his head around to look at Dean. He's conscious and not drugged-up, and Dean sounds kind of far away, as if he's really talking about something else. As though Dean never expected to see Sam again.

Sam flashes back to harsh words over a cell phone and the way he'd severed all ties with his family and wonders: did Dean think he'd never see Sam again? Or, worse, had Sam actually intended just that, to never spend another moment with his brother?

And if Jess hadn't died, would he have succeeded? Would he have ever learned to regret it, the way he regrets it now, being back in Dean's presence day in and day out like when they were growing up?

"Just make sure you keep your head and your gun cocked and aimed," Dean says. He sweeps the pile of clippings into his hands and unfolds from the bed, goes into the bathroom and Sam knows he's dumping them in the toilet. The flush that follows confirms Sam's suspicion.

When Dean comes back out, he's wiping his hands on his jeans. He grabs the nail file off the end table.

"We'll go tonight," Dean says, and starts to buff his nails, especially the places where they're still ragged from who knows what. Hunting, probably.

Sam wonders why he keeps noticing things like that, things he never noticed before. Would those nails catch on Sam's skin if Dean were to touch him? Would they pinch, or would it feel good?

Sam grabs for his head as if he can squeeze those thoughts out altogether.

"All right," he whispers, and Dean isn't even aware of Sam's discomfort.

No matter how much Sam had argued, he's leaning against a tree, watching Dean dig where he hopes Isabella Cartwright's bones are buried. The wormwood is there, all right, but it's crawling over the ground and sprawled out in careless loops, and Sam isn't at all convinced that Isabella is necessarily right there, but Dean refuses to give him a shovel and let him help, which means once again he's useless, worth nothing.

Watching Dean, the powerful muscles in his shoulders bunching under his sweat-stained t-shirt, Sam is unable to resist the memories of unburying Jess, and his two young sons, and setting their flesh alight as if, somehow, burning their bodies and making sure they didn't become restless spirits could break their hold on his soul. After all that, though, he's still unable to let them go, to say good-bye; he wakes up in the darkest part of the night and he swears he can see Jess at the foot of the bed, in her nightgown, with her rounded belly and her eyes burning like beacons through the darkness.

He knows that's not possible, and he knows just as well that his own eyes play tricks that are cruel and unfair. He shifts from foot to foot and tries to push the thoughts of Jess aside, but he just can't do it. She haunts him, day and night, as surely as if she were a restless spirit following him.

It's worse with his children, though; they don't haunt his dreams or his memories. Instead, it's like he can't forget them, but he can't quite remember them either. Tyler's eye colour is a mystery to Sam now, and James's chin—did it really have the same cleft that Dean's has? Did he have golden hair like his mother? Did Tyler truly have the same dark waves that Sam has—or just the shape of Sam's eyes?

This hunt, in some ways, hurts worse than still being stuck in his house in California because it's about a mother and child, and Sam tries to cut off the avenue of thought that follows, but instead he just finds himself wallowing in images of Jess, the prediction of her in the hospital bed, with their third baby on its way.

"Sam!" Dean says all out of the blue, gouging the earth with the shovel and leaning on the handle, looking at Sam like he's the ghost they're hunting. Sam shakes away the melancholy and focuses on Dean, still sweat-stained and looking exhausted, and entirely too real. Sam has the impulsive urge to throw his arms around his brother, to press his face into the crook of his shoulder and inhale the scent of the sweat, the very evidence of the life pumping through his veins.

"What?" Sam says, suddenly aware that he's drifting, not paying attention even when Dean is clearly trying to rouse him back to the present.

"I can hear the gears grinding from here, Sammy," Dean says. "You need to stop thinking about it."

Looking at Dean, Sam is struck by the way his hair is plastered sweaty to his skull, by the way the flashlight Sam is holding wavers, by the concern in eyes darkened by night. Sam blinks, because the moonlight is a white sheen across Dean's hair, but Dean's face is in shadow, and Sam shouldn't be able to see his eyes. He raises his shotgun, unsure of what he's planning to do, and then light crests over Dean's head, milky blue and rushing Sam fast.

"Dean—" Sam says, a quick burst of sound, and Dean whirls, catches sight of the apparition behind him, and collapses to his knees. Sam doesn't even know how he knew she'd show, just that he felt something wrong—he fires the shotgun, and the salt disperses Isabella in a wild sparkling mist, and Sam knows she'll be back. His ribs ache as if in warning, as though the wound, this close to her gravesite, is worsening.

Dean grabs the shovel and starts digging faster, and Sam, with a bright idea born of desperation, grabs the salt canister and makes an uneven ring around Dean and then steps inside it. Panting, hanging onto his ribcage, he watches outside of the circle into the darkness, and then Dean stops.

"Uh oh." Dean looks up at Sam, his face creased with shadow, and points to the earth at his feet.

Sam turns his eyes to where Dean's been digging, to the tiny bones he's uncovered. "Oh, shit," he whispers—they've found the baby, which will either put his mother to rest because she doesn't have to keep searching—unlikely—or make her furiously angry. Angry enough to try to kill them. Mother and child and all that.

"We gotta find her bones, Sammy," Dean hisses. "She's not gonna be too happy about us burnin' these ones, and so I'd rather get her first. You didn't use up all the salt, did you?"

Sam wonders if that's concern or accusation, but now isn't really the time for an argument. He shakes his head.

"No, there's another canister in the duffle. And there's still some left in this one—enough to burn the baby's bones."

Dean straightens up, stretches and twists until his back pops, then picks up the shovel again.

"Stay here," he says. "Inside the salt circle. And cover me with the shotgun while I try to find her."

"I don't know, Dean," Sam murmurs doubtfully. "I think the closer we are to her baby, the more angry she's going to be."

"Yeah, but I wanna make sure you're safe," Dean says in a tone that brooks no argument, as much as Sam would like to do so. He's twenty-eight, not eight—but Dean's got a point. Last time she went after him, and moments earlier it seemed like she was bent on breaking the rest of his ribs.

Dean sweeps the ground with his gaze, looking for the origin of the rest of the wormwood, Sam extrapolates. But it's dark and frigid and Sam raises his eyes to the sky and a dark shape passes over the moon. Standing here, in the ruins of someone's backyard, with the long-stripped bones of a baby at his feet, he feels a shiver crawl up his spine.

He'd really thought this part of his life was over, yet along with the trill of fear is a flush of exhilaration. And then his head starts to pound, a slow build up to an unbearable crescendo of pain, until he can almost hear himself screaming over the crashing of cymbals in his skull.

He opens his eyes and he's flat on his back, the salt circle scattered, his hair full of dirt, and the knowledge of where Isabella is buried without even the assistance of the wormwood or anything. He shouldn't know—his visions have always been of that monster. That monster that he's going to find someday, if only so he can blow it all to hell and tell it to fuck itself and its plan.

But for some reason—there's a sharp report above his head, but Sam knows it's not the shotgun. He struggles to sit up, wiping dirt from the streaks of sweat on his face, and Dean is staring at him, concerned. Actually, more like totally freaked. Which—well, okay, Sam might expect that from the fact that he was just screaming his fool head off, but he knows Dean has seen worse things than this.

Dean's expression doesn't make sense, but before Sam can tell him he's all right, Dean's crouching in front of him.

"What happened, Sam," he presses urgently. "Don't lie. I know something happened and I also know it wasn't because of Isabella."

"It's—"

"Fine," Dean says, "we'll talk about this later. After I burn this ghost. But, Sammy, don't think I'm going to forget."

He pats Sam's shoulder, and something flits through his eyes. And then he helps Sam back to his feet.

"Over there," Sam says. "The wormwood is growing from there."

Dean gives him a funny look, but he starts digging where Sam pointed.

It's tedious work, and Sam is bored with nothing to do but watch Dean work. Although, strangely, watching Dean makes him feel strange, like his skin is too tight and itchy. He can't put his finger on it, and he doesn't think it's the influence of the spirits in the air—and he knows she's watching them. Yet he feels peace steal over him, as if her anger is fading.

The salt is still nothing more than trampled grains around him, but she doesn't come after him again.

In fact, his attention is dragged away from Dean by the faint light that resolves into the outline of a young woman, still spattered with blood, as she kneels in front of the baby's bones. He can hear, on the wind, the long, fretful and wavering sound of a baby's cry, followed by the echo of weeping.

And then light flares up behind Dean, sending his figure into painted relief, and the woman in front of Sam vanishes in a shower of ash.

The weeping cuts away like the needle being yanked off the record, and then the baby's cry grows louder, more anxious, until Sam spreads salt and lighter fluid over the bones and strikes the match.

He feels guilty about burning the baby, because it hadn't been hurting anyone, but he reminds himself that he's putting it to rest. That he's doing it a kindness.

And that's when he realises he's crying, silent tears tracking down his face.

Dean doesn't mention the tears when they get back to the room, but Sam isn't sure if that's because he's trying to be considerate, or simply because he didn't notice.

In any event, Sam calls dibs on the first shower and locks himself in the bathroom so that he can scrub the tear stains from his face and try to bring down the swelling in his nose. It's only then, using the scratched and scummy mirror to comb dirt from his hair with his fingers, that he realises Dean has to know something's up—because Sam is an idiot who said he was going to take a shower when he's still not supposed to get himself all wet. And of course Dean knows that.

Sam unlocks the door a little bit sheepishly and by the time he plops down on his bed, Dean's giving him that look. Sam buries his face in his hands and tries not to feel too much like a moron, but it's difficult.

Hell, it was stupid to lock the door; Sam doesn't even know why he did that. It's not really the Winchester way—that is, the three of them have never put much stock in shut doors or locks or privacy because haste was usually an issue in their lives.

But he finds that he can't bring himself to meet Dean's eyes, or to acknowledge that he just did something that was suspicious on a number of different levels. At least the tears are gone from his face, although his nose is probably still a little bit red; he can probably blame that on the wintry Michigan air, though. He hopes.

"So you wanna tell me how you knew where she was buried?" Dean opens with, no preamble, nothing to give Sam the chance to prepare an answer that—

Goddammit.

It doesn't even matter; Sam remembers vividly every significant lie he ever told Jess, whether to protect her—and sometimes, selfishly, to protect himself—and he knows he can't lie to Dean. Not effectively, anyway; Dean will see through a lie like he's looking through a window.

When Sam doesn't answer immediately, Dean blows out a breath. He's clearly frustrated, but he's not throwing punches, which Sam considers to be a plus, at least.

"Fine, I'll start," Dean says, annoyed. "You fucking pass out in the middle of a salt and burn, when you could've gotten yourself killed, I might add, and then when you wake the fuck up you suddenly know where the ghost is buried. Jesus Christ, Sam, don't you even want to know what's going on?"

That gets Sam's attention. "Do you know? You know what's causing it?"

"I don't," Dean says, shaking his head. Across the room, the TV goes from a news broadcast to static. Outside, Sam hears some kind of animal scrabbling at the wooden planks of the walkway. It's all so normal, the celery coloured carpet, the lumpy pillow, even the injury he sustained, that it makes this thing even worse. The pink elephant that is sitting on his chest, invisible but suffocating nonetheless.

And for just a heart-stopping moment Sam thought he was going to find out just what is going on; he can't even express his disappointment, or his frustration. This thing is like a cancer eating away at his brain, constantly nibbling and Sam can't escape it and he doesn't know what it is.

And then Dean says something horrible. Something that makes Sam's world tilt and it feels like the celery-coloured carpet is forty miles away and dropping fast.

"It has something to do with Jess," Dean says softly. "I don't know what, or how, exactly. Just that... well, Sam, I can't explain what happened either. But I know—" he stops. "I know you felt that there was something off about the whole thing, something you couldn't put your finger on. And, well, I don't really have any answers for you, Sammy, but I know that this thing—whatever the fuck it is—has something to do with it."

"And how do you know that?" Sam asks, still stricken by Dean's words. They weren't careless or angled to wound, but despite that Sam is still reeling inside, the sound of the wind outside suddenly right inside his ears.

"Because Dad told me, in his one phone call, that I should call and tell you to watch out." Dean scrubs a hand through his hair and his face takes on a distressed cast. "And he said that you were special in ways we couldn't imagine and that you would pay for that uniqueness. But he wouldn't say anything else. Y'know, same old Dad."

"So he knows what's going on with me?" Sam leaps to his feet and starts pacing, hopes cruelly that he wears a track in the disgusting carpet. "Of course he does," Sam says, yanking his fingers through his hair, feeling strands catch on his callouses and get ripped out of his skull. "Of course he wouldn't fucking tell me. That would be too easy. How the hell am I supposed to be careful if he doesn't even tell me what to look for?"

"I don't know, Sammy," Dean says, and he sounds genuinely sorry. "I know this has gotta be killing you, and I am so sorry that Dad didn't bother to be more specific, but... we could go visit him," Dean offers at last.

"No," Sam snaps. "No, I don't want to see him. Dude, Dean, he basically told me to fuck off for life. And he's not gonna tell us anything, you know that."

"So help me understand. When you passed out, what happened?"

Sam kicks the baseboard of the wall. "I don't really know. My head hurt really bad and then I came to and I just... I knew where she was buried. I can't explain it any better than that." He looks up from the floor, catches Dean's gaze. And the world falls from beneath his feet for the second time, a sudden blast of vertigo that makes his stomach clench up and his eyes water and he's—

Staring at Dean, at his face, most specifically his lips. He's even moving closer, touching them tentatively with the pad of his finger, and Dean's lower lip is a contradiction, somehow impossibly soft and yet slightly rough at the same time, like it's chapped and peeling.

Dean is breathing carefully, like he's trying extra hard to keep his breathing even and slow. Sam doesn't really understand what's going on, just that he's kneeling in front of Dean on the cot, breathing the same air, searching green eyes for answers he knows will never be there, at least not now.

So when he kisses Dean, it surprises both of them. It's like being doused with scorching hot water, running down his face, the back of his neck. He can feel his skin blister. He can feel his lips swell and crack from the pressure.

Yet somehow it's the best thing that's ever happened to him, and at the very same instant, the worst. Sam lets his eyes close and tries to enjoy the feel of Dean's mouth, but he's swamped by feelings of remorse and disgust. When Dean opens his mouth Sam takes advantage, but he doesn't enjoy it.

And when Dean's hands slide up underneath the back of Sam's shirt, Sam feels himself shudder, feels the revulsion ripple through him, and he just doesn't fucking understand why he's kissing his brother, or why he's still doing it even when it makes him feel this awful about himself.

And that doesn't even begin to cover what he feels when it comes to Jess—the horrific betrayal to kiss Dean when she's dead. To kiss Dean like he's in love with him instead.

He breaks the kiss and opens his eyes and—

He's sitting on the floor, his back against the wall. Behind it he can hear some couple going at it, the headboard thumping into the wall just beside his head, and he wonders whether they're married or just lovers sneaking around, cheating on their significant others.

And he can't look at Dean. He just can't. To look at Dean is to acknowledge the kiss. To become complicit in it, to convey some type of approval, and that he just can't do.

When the fuck did this happen? he asks himself, and he pushes to his feet, thankful that his shoes are still on even if his jacket's across the room. Without looking at Dean, he mutters,

"I'll be back."

"Where are you going?" Dean says, and the hurt and plaintive note in his voice draws Sam's eyes to him anyway. He sounds anxious, like Sam's going to walk through that door and not come back—and frankly, Sam had considered it, if only for a moment; but then he wouldn't have anyone. And he doesn't really have any other place to go.

"I just—" Sam has no idea where he's going. "I need some fresh air. A walk." He's staring straight at Dean now, and his eyes gravitate to Dean's lips.

"You were just outside for hours in the freezing cold," Dean protests. And Sam hangs on each word if only so that he can watch Dean's mouth shape each one.

Which is when he realises that Dean's lips are pale. Not blistered red by a forbidden kiss. Fuck, it happened again, Sam realises, and stops with his hand on the doorknob.

"Did I—?" Sam says, unable to say it out loud. Dean nods, just once.

"Come lie down, Sam," Dean says, and Sam applies context to those words that isn't there, and he feels a sickening sense of shame come over him. What is wrong with him?

"I... I probably should," Sam says slowly. "I'm just gonna... yeah, maybe sleep will help."

Dean gives him a quirked smile, and Sam finds it reassuring in spite of himself.

Still, though: what the fuck is going on with him?

Sleep doesn't help. Sam wakes up exhausted, with his rib throbbing in pain and his mind unsettled. He'd almost gotten used to the yellow-eyed man invading his consciousness, flaunting the murders of people Sam doesn't know and will probably never meet—and even though Sam feels guilty about each one, as if he were somehow responsible, this new thing is actually worse. He remembers catching Dean jerking off, and how appalled he had been, how disturbed.

Sam knows that was a normal reaction: this is his brother, so of course he shouldn't find the idea of Dean whacking off, or Dean's cock for that matter, arousing. But now everything's getting worse; he's moved his gun with nothing but the power of his mind and he's apparently gotten psychic enough to divine things that no-one should be able to know, like where Isabella was buried.

But even that is not what makes him lie in bed this morning, soundless and unmoving, trying to feign sleep so that he has time to think before Dean realises he's awake. No, it's the fact that the visions have suddenly turned to something frighteningly personal, have shifted and morphed into this thing where he does stuff like kiss Dean.

Sam tries to assign identities to the water stains on the ceiling—that one's a duck, and the one over there looks like... he sighs heavily in spite of himself, because once he recalled the sight of Dean's dick, it's like he can't stop thinking about it. Like that shape on the ceiling, which could be a perfect replica of the one dick in this world that Sam is absolutely not supposed to want.

He knows that once, he knew what it meant to be normal, to feel safe and sane and not out-of-control like he does now. Now, he sees Dean in a totally different way, and it's impossible to ignore. He can't pretend that he doesn't notice every time Dean licks his lips, or when Dean's eyebrows draw together when he's thinking hard.

He can't escape the way he hangs on every sound from Dean's showers now, like if Dean greases the one-eyed snake Sam will somehow to be able to tell. And, God, he probably could—these psychic abilities aren't just foreign and unwanted, but far-flung. He doesn't really want to test out whether they will encompass sharp, clear images of Dean's dick as it slides in and out of his fist.

Fuck. Sam can't dismiss the thoughts, can't bury them. This isn't normal, Sam knows that, and it hurts, this desire that feels like it's boiling in his blood. It fucking hurts. How can he do this to Dean? What would Dean do, if he caught Sam out?

"Sam," Dean breathes into the cool dawn air. "I know you're awake. Are you—" Dean pauses as if he's weighing his next words carefully. "Is your rib paining you?"

It's not that strange for Dean to ask after Sam's welfare, but he usually does it in a more roundabout way.

"It's fine," Sam lies. As if to punish him for the lie to his brother, his body squeezes in pain again. Man, he wishes this thing would just heal already—he wants to be back to full-strength. He wants to be able to pull his own weight and not basically weigh Dean down.

"You suck at lying," Dean declares. "I mean, sometimes you're passably good at it, like when we're hunting, but times like this? How fuckin' blind do you think I am, Sammy?"

The bedspread on Sam's bed is the same colour as the carpet, with ugly paisley patterns in pink and flowery whorls in yellow. There's about a million threads pulling free from it and it's not particularly warm, for a freezing Michigan winter. Sam starts to trace some of the paisley with his fingers, stalling. He doesn't want to talk to Dean right now, and he really doesn't want to look at Dean, because if he does that, he doesn't really know what will happen.

In fact, when he shifts his eyes away from the ugly blanket, he realises that right at his crotch area is a slight lump from where his cock is just stiff enough to push out the fabric.

Oh, for fuck's sake. He could try to blame it on morning-wood, but he has a feeling there's a much more insidious reason for it.

"Jesus, Sam, you're like a constant space cadet lately. I talk to you, and you don't even seem to hear me. Goddammit. Sam."

"My rib hurts, okay?" Sam rolls onto his side away from Dean so that his brother won't see the evidence of his arousal. Not like they haven't woken up in the same room a thousand times; not like he hasn't seen the bulge from Dean's morning-wood in his boxer-briefs when he got up to piss. But somehow... he just can't stand the thought of Dean seeing.

"Do you want me to get you some aspirin? Or do you need something stronger?" Dean sounds worried, which makes Sam feel guilty.

"Nah," he says flippantly. "It's not that bad, just a little leftover ache."

"You know we gotta stay here for another couple days," Dean remarks. "Just to make sure." What he's not saying is that he also wants to give Sam a few more days to moulder in bed—okay, to heal—before he dumps them both back in the Impala for what could be thousands of miles. Sam really isn't sure his rib could handle being forced into the car for hours.

"Yeah, well maybe I could try to find us another hunt while we hang around," Sam offers. Maybe if he does that, he won't feel so much like he's just blobbing around doing nothing useful.

Dean's quiet for a long time, and Sam feels a tingle on the back of his neck, like Dean is staring at him. No, more than that. It's not quite like he's staring... it's more like he's studying. Like Dean is just as interested in what Sam looks like as Sam has been finding himself intrigued with Dean's looks lately. It's disconcerting.

But then, Dean is probably trying to bore a hole into Sam's skull so that he can see what Sam is thinking, or, barring that, maybe he's trying to work out what's going on with Sam so that he can stop it.

God, Sam wishes Dean could stop it. He wishes he could stop it—that someone, anyone could just make it go away.

"We should call Bobby," Dean says abruptly. Sam rolls over to face Dean in spite of himself, surprised by the suggestion; he has only the vaguest memories of Bobby, because it's been years since he did this job.

"What for?" he asks, and then wants to smack himself in the forehead for such a stupid question. Dean does his favourite, trademark eyebrow arch. Sam never really paid that much attention before, but he finds now that he hates it, because it draws attention to the similarly fine arch of Dean's cheekbones, and the delicate bones of his face. Dean's too pretty, and Sam hates it. Has always hated it, actually, but before it was from the perfectly reasonable standpoint of jealousy because Dean always got anything he wanted based pretty much on his looks alone, but now... now Sam hates those too-pretty, fine-boned features because they make him feel a little funny in the pit of his stomach. Hell, even the slight bump on Dean's nose that quirks it crooked is more attractive than it has any right to be.

And Sam realises that he's been staring at Dean, with his mouth slightly open and possibly even drooling a little, and Dean's giving him a weird look.

"Because maybe Bobby can help with your whole..." Dean pulls his arm out from under his equally ugly blanket—which doesn't even match Sam's—to flail it about as if that means something. "Your thing," he finishes lamely.

"You think Bobby would tell us even if he knew something? I mean, we've established that Dad won't," Sam points out. He sighs and flops onto his back, bending his knees and putting his feet flat on the bed to hide the slight erection that won't subside.

Dean mumbles something incoherent, and that's when Dean's cell phone chirps merrily, causing his brother to flail for a second time as he tries to reach it before the vibrations send it tumbling off the edge of the nightstand.

Dean's bedspread—purple with huge orange flowers splashed all over it—slips to the floor when Dean manages to grab the phone just in time and yank it up to his ear.

"'Lo?" he says, managing to sound half-awake, voice crusty, even though a moment ago his voice sounded honey-smooth to Sam.

Sam goes back to assigning animals to each stain on the ceiling, barely hearing Dean—he's used to tuning Dean out because a lot of his cell phone calls are from his one-night stands—when Dean says,

"Well, Jesus, Dad."

Sam feels every muscle in his body go tight and still. With their father in prison, it's kind of the last thing Sam expected, for John to call them. Well, maybe he should've thought John might call Dean—after all, he's a non-entity to his father now.

Dean catches Sam's eye and then, very deliberately, pushes the speaker button on his phone. Instantly, John's voice fills the air spread thick between them.

"Listen, Dean, is Sam with you?"

Dean cuts a quick glance at Sam, but Sam doesn't need the warning to know he needs to be a silent as possible, so that John doesn't realise he's on speakerphone.

"Yeah, how did you know?" Dean asks, dissembling perfectly. He sounds totally innocent, like he has no idea why John might be calling, though Sam is certain they both suspect the reason why John would contact them.

"I heard about... things," John says. "It's a terrible thing, but I just don't understand, Dean. Why didn't you warn your brother?"

"Maybe," Dean says slyly, "if you had told me just what I was supposed to be warning him about, it would've worked better."

John huffs angrily, and Sam can tell that he's frustrated that Dean isn't just saying, yes, sir, like a good little soldier would. Sam is perversely proud of Dean; he wonders when his brother stopped just saying, how high? every time John said 'jump'.

"You should have told him, Dean."

"Told him what, exactly? I don't know much more than he does, Dad. You know, maybe some time you should try keeping things a little less close to your chest. It might help."

"I didn't call to argue, Dean, and I don't have much time. Besides, they monitor every call and they are everywhere, Dean. So be careful."

Sam can see Dean's sullen frown at this.

"Who are they?" Dean asks impatiently, and Sam wants to ask the same question, because both of them clearly heard the emphasis on the word that suggested someone—or some thing—other than the guards.

"Dean," John says stiffly, sounding hurt and strained. "I can't get into details with you. Just know that you need to be very, very watchful from now on, and keep an extremely close eye on your brother."

"Jesus, Dad," Dean says again, "why is it every time you call, you tell me to protect Sam? What, do you think if you didn't say it, I wouldn't?" Dean seems offended now, but Sam can't tell if it's genuine.

"I heard about Sam," John says, continuing on like Dean hasn't posed a difficult question John had no intention of answering. "You should've taken him to the hospital."

"And said what?" Dean growls under his breath, jaw clicking and a muscle flexing in his cheek.

"Just be careful. Every precaution, Dean; don't forget. And if I can, I will call again soon. Do not let them get their hands on Sam, Dean." The static that announces a connected call breaks off into silence as John hangs up. Dean drops the phone and makes a moue of disgust.

"He's so helpful," Dean mutters angrily. Sam is actually still a little surprised that Dean is this upset with their father. The Dean he remembers would never argue, never express displeasure with John, even if he felt it; he would've always bottled it up so that no-one else would see.

"When did you start standing up to Dad?" Sam asks curiously, almost managing to forget all of his discomfiting thoughts from earlier. Well, except the ones that make his eyes keep slipping back down to the rosy hue of Dean's lips.

"'Bout when you left," Dean says uneasily. "I know you think I just sided with Dad, Sam, but—"

"I don't need you to explain that to me," Sam interjects.

"Yeah, well, he didn't handle that right, Sam. And I think he regretted it, but you know Dad. Anyway, after that, it was... difficult to just do what he said without at least asking why, you know? Because it was Dad's fault that you left."

"It wasn't his fault I left, Dean. I just wanted to get an education. I just wanted to make something of my life that didn't include hunting forever, wasting all of the talent I had. The things I was good at."

"You are good at hunting, Sam," Dean protests.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam says. "I know I should've... I don't know. But I just couldn't mix the two things. If I let that happen—if I let you into my life with Jess—I ran the risk of that life finding Jess. Fuck." Sam swings one knee back and forth, trying to ease some of the tension and anxiety now coursing through him. God, he thinks, the decor is so hideous.

"I would've helped you," Dean says. Sam can't stop a tiny snort.

"You still would've done whatever Dad wanted."

"Jesus, Sam, why didn't you at least listen to me when I told you to be careful?"

"Look, just... leave that alone. I went to college because it was safe, Dean. Because I just didn't want to live this life forever."

"But you had me," Dean says, voice taut like a thread snagged on something. He sounds like there's still something he's not saying, but Sam can't really interpret what it is.

"It's not... it wasn't like that, Dean. I didn't leave you because I hated you or anything. I just had to get out." Sam waves his hand and then lets it flop back down against the scratchy, ugly blanket. "And besides, what Jess did, I couldn't've stopped that. Couldn't've helped it."

"You tryin' to convince me or yourself, Sam?" Dean asks. "Like it or not, you're stuck with me now. We gotta hunt because it's important, and we will find out what's up with your freaky head, Sammy. One thing at a time."

Sam sits up carefully, tape straining across his ribcage. "I'm hungry, and I stink, Dean. Can I have a shower, like a real shower, yet?"

Dean sits up too. "Let me check you over, little brother, and I'll let you know. But after breakfast, we're gonna give Bobby a yell. Ask him if he knows what's up—maybe he'll know who they are, that Dad was singularly unhelpful about."

Sam obligingly lowers the paisley-printed cover. But as Dean walks over, he can't help a little burst of anticipation, as if Dean's hands on him in a way Dean has done a million times before will suddenly mean something different; feel different.

And as Dean starts to unwind the bandage, Sam remembers Dean stitching up his thigh. Recalls the way his dick got interested in Dean's proximity, and wonders: did he carry this perversion all along, even way back then?

Dean calls Bobby the minute they get back to the motel room after breakfast, but he doesn't pick up, because after listening for a few minutes, Dean disconnects and throws his phone at the bed.

"Dean, I'll just check for cases. We can always try Bobby again later."

"Yeah, I don't think he's going to answer for us," Dean says. "Dad probably instructed him not to talk to us, either." Dean kicks at the carpet and it's so dirty and worn-through that if Dean scuffs it, no-one would be able to tell.

"But why would Dad do that?" Sam crosses the room and plunks himself down on the edge of his bed. It's getting tedious, not understanding anything, and no-one willing to tell them anything.

"Oh, my God," Dean says, and smacks himself on the forehead. "What a dumbass I am. I've got Dad's journal!" He crouches down in front of his duffle and starts rummaging through it. "He gave it to me just before they arrested him, because he knew how dangerous it would be if the authorities got a look at it. I can't believe I didn't even think of it until now."

Sam lifts his shirt up a little and prods the edges of his bandaged ribs, poking his finger underneath and checking to see just how tender he still is. With Dean absorbed in flipping through the journal, Sam flips his shirt up even higher and examines the splash of black and blue like paint splattered across his midsection.

"Leave it alone, Sam," Dean says, without really looking at him, though Sam gets a twinge that suggests Dean is aware of him all the same. And that Dean is trying to mask something, some feeling, but Sam doesn't know what it is. "This is all kinds of nonsense, I swear to God. I don't even know—Dad writes like Yoda."

Sam drops his shirt, which smells faintly of grease and smoke from the diner, and has a misshapen stain right at the hem that Sam suspects was blood once, before the shirt was washed. He's not wearing his overshirt, because he's sweating at the temples and under his arms and he thinks it's probably over-exertion.

"As soon as this heals," Sam says to Dean, even though his brother is still poring over the scrawled-upon pages, "I need to train. Spar and work up some extra muscle. Being a lawyer—" he has to clip off the sentence, because he can't even finish the thought without the plunging feel of vertigo, followed by a rising tide in of pain that fills his chest until he can't breathe.

"I'll get you back into shape," Dean says, looking up. "This is nuts. Dad... I mean, I know there's evil shit out there, Sam, but some of this is raving even to me."

"What does it say?" Sam stands up and starts pacing, though he knows it will probably make Dean give him the stink-eye for not lying down and resting, but Jesus Christ, if Sam has to spend any more time just lying in bed, he's going to start scratching messages into his forearms. So that people will understand why he went crazy and died of boredom.

"He talks about... Sam, he mentions demonic possession in here. In all my time hunting, I've never seen any evidence of a demon or demonic activity."

Sam moves to where Dean is and squats down next to him, carefully lowering himself to the floor and crossing his legs.

"Has anyone? Have you talked to other hunters?"

"Sammy, when has Dad ever made a connection with anyone else—y'know, besides Bobby? And the whole shotgun incident, well, that sort of put a kink in their relationship."

"There's gotta be other hunters, Dean. It's only logical." Sam leans back against the chair set behind him, folding his hands behind his head and trying to affect nonchalance, as if it doesn't feel like there are bees buzzing around in his ribcage. As if he's going to be stung any second with a memory that he'd much rather stow someplace where he doesn't have to think about it ever again.

"You learn that at Stanford?" Dean asks, and tosses the journal onto the floor. "This is chicken scratch. I don't know how I am supposed to make sense of any of it."

"Don't talk about Stanford like that," Sam snaps. "Like you're disdainful of it. What's the matter, Dean, are you jealous that I got to go to college and all you got to do was follow Daddy around?" As soon as the words curl off his tongue, Sam feels like he's mouth is on fire. Words that incendiary aren't going to help anything; he's sorry he said them, especially when Dean's face goes pale, the colour leached away like blood washed from a piece of white cloth.

"Dude," Dean says, blustering as if he hasn't just obviously reacted as though Sam struck him. "What the fuck is your problem?"

Sam stares at Dean, eyes wide. He... he's really not sure why such vitriol left his lips. Dean was trying to help—Dean is the only person he can really depend on in his life. Why try to alienate that? Sam suspects that if he angers Dean enough, his brother will just pack up his bags and take off in the Impala, leaving him behind.

After all, why would anyone want to spend any length of time with Sam, when he's so fucking angry and sorrowful all the time? He's more fun than a bucket of dead monkeys.

"I—" he claps his mouth shut. And then Dean nods his head, the look in his eyes melting into understanding. "I didn't mean it, Dean," Sam says finally. "It's not your fault."

"I shouldn't—I should've remembered, Sam," Dean says. "And it is my fault. I could've protected you better."

That rouses Sam's anger all over again, though this time he manages to keep most of it behind his teeth; instead he says, jaw tight,

"I'm an adult, Dean. It's not up to you to protect me forever. It really is my own fault for being a fucking idiot and ignor—" he comes to a screeching halt. He almost—he forgot that he hasn't told Dean about everything that happened in those last years. The visions that came with disturbing regularity and frequency; the yellow-eyed creature of his nightmares invading his mind even during the day, like his own brain wasn't his any more.

"Ignoring what?" Dean asks, and there's a flush of colour high on each cheekbone. He's clearly still upset, but he's leashing it well, which is strange; Sam would've expected Dean to have thrown a punch by now. The Dean he knew as a teenager would've definitely planted his fist right into Sam's mouth for any number of things by now.

"Jess, I suppose," Sam mumbles. "She must've been depressed or something, and I didn't even realise it."

"I've already told you that you can't blame yourself," Dean says. "You are going to have to let this go eventually, or it will just poison you until you can't succeed at anything. Go fire up the laptop and look for hunts, but remember, we have to let your rib heal still."

Sam feels vaguely like a child again, scolded by his older brother—the only person who ever really took the time to punish him or spend time with him, since John was always too preoccupied with hunting—and it's an uncomfortable sensation, because Sam doesn't like being made to feel like a small, helpless thing again.

He labours to his feet carefully, trying not to strain his injury, and digs his laptop out of its bag. He sets it up on the table and turns it on.

But he already knows, even before he starts searching, that Dean's going to shoot down any suggestions of a hunt. Sam wonders how long they're going to stay holed up in fucking Michigan, unmoving, stagnating.

Because Sam's still injured, and Dean isn't going to take any chances, Sam knows that. But it's still maddening.

But it's fucking cold and Sam is still acclimatised to the warm weather of California, and he hates it here.

There's a quick, blink-and-you-miss-it hunt that they take care of in early January. It's so routine that the only thing to recommend it as being worth mentioning to anyone is just how much chasing they did in the cemetery, running after the spirit, running away from it, digging the grave in record time. Sam's rib is still about ninety percent, but Dean allows him to help out, giving him his faithful shotgun and then cocking his own.

Later, after they've showered and Sam has had a chance to reflect on the fact that they took care of a salt and burn in about thirty-six hours, it occurs to him that neither of them really slept in all that time, so he suggests they go to bed, even though it's only about 6 p.m.

And then Sam flops over onto his side in bed, tracking Dean in the darkness. "Hey, Dean," he says, even though they should both be exhausted from all the running around they've done. But this one thing, it won't leave him alone, like a fly buzzing around his skull and driving him out of his mind.

"Mmph," Dean says into his pillow. He moves slightly, and his words a less muffled when he says, "Dude, what is it? I'm tired and I need my beauty sleep."

Sam wants to retort, but that will just derail the conversation. "What did you do, all that time, after Dad said to tell me to be careful?"

Dean grunts. "We gotta talk about this now? Man, Sammy, you always did have the worst timing. And the girliest desires to talk through everything."

"No, seriously, Dean. You didn't come get me, but you could have."

"Is this you thinking I coulda stopped what happened? I wish I could've, Sammy, but Dad didn't really tell me jack shit about what was really going on."

Sam crushes the blanket between his fingers, frustrated and feeling kind of like a balloon about to burst. "No, I don't mean that. I just... I can't get it out of my head."

Dean sighs heavily. "Well, first I did everything I could think of to try and get Dad out of jail. I tried legal avenues, I tried to break him out-thankfully that was a failure no-one noticed. I drove by your house every so often on my way back and forth through hunts. I scoured libraries."

Sam's throat aches. "Why did you let me push you around, Dean? I was such a dick. Why didn't you come punch me in the face?"

"I didn't want to interfere. You were happy, Sam, and you thought-hell, you thought what I knew was probably true: that I'd ruin that for you." Dean shifts, and the sheets rustle, making the darkness seem somehow ominous despite the comforting, familiar presence of Dean in the bed near him, closest to the door.

Sam sprawls onto his back, unable to look towards Dean any more, guilt clogged thick in his throat.

"I wish you had. I wish you'd socked me one so that I would've listened to you." He echoes Dean's sigh. "I was so stupid. So blind."

Dean huffs and punches his pillow to fluff it up. "Sammy, I searched all over for some clue why you'd be special or need to be careful, and I couldn't find a damn thing."

Sam doesn't think he can sleep. He should be falling over, drunk from lack of sleep, but he just keeps replaying those harsh words over and over in his head, the things he said to Dean, hurtful and unnecessary.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he whispers, but there's no response.

Even though Dean's conscience isn't apparently troubled enough to keep him awake, Sam realises, listening to Dean's slightly choppy breath, that his brother probably did everything he could. And in that span of a year, Sam could have, at any time, reached out and let Dean know something weird was happening, and Dean would have been there.

Just what had Sam been trying to prove? Had he been trying to assert his independence again and again, rebelling against everything he knew, everything his family meant, just so he could have a few short years of blissful happiness that he wasn't strong enough, wasn't vigilant enough, to protect?

Had he gone to Dean back then, would Jess and Ty and Jamie still be alive? Would there have been a new baby to hold, to kiss and love?

Dean would have been there. Dean would have been able to help, and Sam pushed that away.

He's such a fucking moron. All that independence, all that pointless rebellion, worth nothing in the end. He doesn't sleep all night.

Sam finds their next hunt on Dean's birthday. He has gotten so good now at pretending that his life with Jess never happened that he definitely doesn't think about the first time they had sex, or that it occurred on her birthday—the same day as Dean's.

And he especially doesn't think about how sometimes, now, when he looks at Dean he's still curious what it would be like to touch his brother's skin out of desire, and not out of anything brotherly. It freaks him out. It freaks him out even more that the longer these feelings germinate under his skin, the less he finds the idea abhorrent. The less guilty he feels for wanting to caress Dean's skin or mark up his scars with his lips.

And that's just fucking wrong, which leads to all sorts of self-recriminations. He will figure out how to squash these feelings. They are not normal, and they are wrong. Sick. What would Dean think?

But the hunt is something they can't ignore. Mostly because the minute Sam finds the news story, he recognises it as the signs of a demonic possession, even though neither he nor Dean have ever come across any proof that such a thing exists.

His rib is healed, but they've stayed in Michigan, and Sam's even starting to get used to the fucking cold weather and the constant bucketfuls of snow being dumped on them, when the hunt turns up. Almost like someone is beckoning them, really.

"Here," he says, and Dean sets down the gun that he's cleaned at least ten times over the past month. Sam knows Dean has been utterly bored as well, and he's sorry for it; God, next time he won't be so stupid. Dean winds up standing behind Sam, peering over his shoulder, so close that the warmth of his body seeps into Sam's and takes away the sting of constant cold. His breath, too, is bitter with coffee and hot against Sam's t-shirt, making it slightly damp with the humidity of it. "This sounds like our kind of thing."

Dean reads aloud, "Mrs. Patricia Dayton has been hospitalised for strange markings and bruises on her body. When evaluated, she claimed that her home had been 'invaded' by some sort of malevolent presence, which came to her at night in her dreams and when she woke up, she had claw marks on her forearms. Her husband says that she's never shown any signs of schizophrenia before, but Mrs. Dayton has been held for observation by the psychiatric department. Her husband, Clarkson, states that he has not noticed anything odd about their house."

"We should check it out," Sam puts in when Dean pauses, still scanning the story. "I know, this is a tabloid, but still. These are important people, Dean. She's the mayor's daughter. And if something bad is going down, it's up to us to make sure that no-one dies." He doesn't mention the guilt he still feels over the deaths on his conscience.

"You're right," Dean says. "Hey, listen, little brother. I turn thirty-two today, Sammy, and I want to celebrate!"

"Does this involve hookers and beer?" Sam asks, turning his head to the side and tilting it so he can see his brother's face. This close, he can see every tiny little point of stubble on Dean's jaw, and he practically has to sit on his hands to keep from reaching up to run his hand over it, to feel it scrape against his palm.

"More like bars and willing women," Dean says, grinning. "You think I need to pay for it, Sammy?"

"I don't know," Sam says, a mischievous smile lighting his lips and, he knows, flashing his dimples. "You are getting pretty old, Dean. I don't know what girl would want you." But beyond the lighthearted jab at Dean, Sam can feel the pulse of electricity in his heart that says how much, how badly, he wants Dean. It's fucking insane.

"I'm sure I can find someone," Dean boasts. "C'mon, baby brother. Since you're still such a baby and all. Bet you can't get laid, either."

There's something heavy under those words. A curious weight to them that lends them an importance, a significance, that Sam can't make heads or tails of.

Besides, Dean is probably right; with his brother around, no-one ever looks twice at Sam, as he well remembers.

"Well, hell, it is your birthday," Sam says, shining up his grin even more. "Might as well get toasted and then check out tomorrow, hung-over and completely useless. D'you think the hunt can wait that long?"

Dean whaps Sam on the shoulder, and the sudden physical contact takes Sam by surprise. He jolts in his seat.

"Sammy, it's almost nine. The night's just getting started, and we can't do anything about it tonight anyway."

Sam lets himself fill up with wild irresponsibility. It's freeing, almost like flying. He loves the feel of it, this chance to just be, to go soak his concerns in liquor until he can't even remember what they are any more.

"Then we should go out," Sam says. He pushes the chair back, and Dean moves out of his way. Sam feels disappointed that Dean is no longer so near.

Sam showers and spends too long combing his hair so that it curls up at the ends, because maybe if he can just make himself look a little bit more appealing, someone—girl or guy—will actually grant him some attention.

Dean showers after Sam, and takes even longer styling his hair so that it sticks up just right in spikes. Sam watches from the doorway, Dean having left the door pretty much wide open, and his brother does all of his preening in the mirror while in only a towel, flaunting his muscles and toned physique, and Sam cannot wait until he can take his shirt off and not feel like he's going to terrify anyone who looks at him.

Dean has scars littered all over that Sam doesn't remember, and it makes him feel lost, like he's missed more than just a few years with Dean. Like he's missed an entire lifetime with Dean—just so he could have Jess, and he didn't even get to keep her.

Dean dresses in tight jeans and Sam, surreptitiously watching him, notes that his brother doesn't bother with underwear; why would he, though, when he obviously plans to get lucky?

Sam puts on his most comfortable jeans, his oldest pair that is from Stanford and therefore clean of bloodstains and gravedirt. He pulls on boxer-briefs first, too, because unlike his brother he'd feel utterly exposed to be wearing nothing underneath his jeans.

Dean slips into a black t-shirt, v-neck, and Sam's mouth waters in a way that reminds him just how damn deviant he's become for some reason. Dean doesn't wear cologne—Sam already knew that—and he doesn't put on an overshirt, just his leather jacket, collar popped, because Dean knows perfectly well that the bad-boy image is what scores him a lot of the girls.

Sam wears his grey t-shirt and shrugs into a red button-down, followed by his khaki jacket. His shoes are dirty, but he doesn't think anyone will notice.

Just before they walk out of the room, Sam sees them both reflected back in the mirror on the wall: Dean, looking shiny and spiffed up and sweet like candy, and Sam, who is just Sam, plain and not very noticeable or at all pretty like Dean. Yeah, Dean's going to get some awesome piece of ass for a birthday present; Sam, though, is probably just going to get a raging headache—and possibly a raging boner from staring at Dean. The jury's still out on that second possibility.

It doesn't matter. Some whiskey or tequila and Sam will be able to dull his sorrows until the edges are smoothed into harmless curves that can't slice him open any more. Which is really all he wants from life at this point—well, all he wants that he can have.

They slide onto the bench seat of the Impala at the same time, and slam their doors in unison too. Sam leans his head against the window as Dean drives, watching the patterns his breath makes on the glass.

But what happens later is the last thing Sam expects.

There is a girl. There always is, with Dean. This one has black hair and blue eyes, and her eyes are that kind of blue that is so light it's like one can see right through them.

It's still early in the evening, and Sam is playing pool not so much for the money but for something to do with his hands and his eyes, so that he doesn't spend all of his time staring at Dean and feeling jealous.

It's not like he doesn't remember being jealous of Dean in bars before. But he's relatively confident that back then it was a jealousy that Dean picked up girls so easily, a trick Sam has never quite learned—why would he, once he had Jess?—but now things are different. Now, when he looks over at them, Dean sitting at the bar and the girl leaning against him with her chest right in his face, he's not envious because Dean might get to tap that. No, he's jealous because he wants to know what it's like to have Dean's breath on his face as a prelude to a kiss, and that freaks him out enough that he tries to keep his eyes from straying over to look at them.

He's losing the game of pool anyway, and since it's not a hustle, he has to get concentrating or else he's going to lose some of their cash that they are probably going to need. He doesn't think Dean will be too happy about that.

And then, just as Sam manages to sink the winning shot, that pain in his head that he never expects explodes behind his eyes. He barely feels his knees buckle as the images flip through his brain like a movie projector—

This time, when Sam kisses Dean, the feeling of revulsion is gone. All that's left is the sweetest feeling of victory, Dean's collar clutched in his fingers, Dean's hot skin seeping through the fabric, and Sam's eyes are closed, his dick is hard against his thigh and he wonders if Dean can feel it.

He unclamps his hands from Dean's shirt and slides them down, pressing one in-between Dean's legs and up, cupping his dick and balls and sighing into Dean's mouth when he finds his brother half-hard, stiffening quickly, and Sam is relieved not to be the only one in this sinking ship.

But when he lets up on Dean's mouth for a moment, just a moment to look at swollen, rosy lips, he catches sight of something over Dean's shoulder—a yellow-eyed man, grinning with satisfaction.

Sam knows at once that Dean can't hear the man when he says, cocky,

"I told you I could give you whatever you wanted. All you have to do is—"

Sam doesn't pull his hand away from Dean's crotch, from the rough denim encasing the cock he wants so badly to see, to taste.

"I won't do it," he says, and the yellow-eyed man shakes his head.

"Then this will never happen for you," he replies, mournfully as though he genuinely cares whether Sam gets to fuck his brother or not.

And Sam leans in, chasing those lips, and—

Opens his eyes, on his ass on the floor by the pool table, and his money's gone and so is the kid he was playing against. He stumbles to his feet, the rushing in his head receding like the ocean from the shore, and he makes his way over to the bar, where Dean is now downing hard liquor instead of the beer he'd been drinking earlier, and the pretty girl is comfortably ensconced on the barstool next to him, her long and very shapely legs crossed in just such a way that shows them off to perfection.

Sam doesn't know what is worse: the fact that he finds her attractive and appreciated her gorgeous, tanned legs, or the fact that he'd still rather have Dean panting and sweaty and at his mercy, a fact that has been fast approaching more appealing than distressing lately.

Or even the fact that he's pushing Jess so aggressively to the back of his mind, especially considering that today was her birthday as well. He closes his eyes briefly, then slides onto the barstool next to Dean and orders a vodka in Coke, a drink he learned to like in college in those few instances where he partied with the other college kids instead of staying home and studying. The bartender gives him a sidelong look, like he thinks the combination is unusual, but he mixes it anyway.

Sam figures he might as well start with the liquor that gets him drunk off his ass, because he would rather be drunk for the rest of tonight, so he doesn't have to think about Jess, or Dean taking that girl somewhere to fuck her, or how much he wants to fuck Dean himself. He still can't figure out these impulses; he knows that growing up he didn't want to screw his brother. He would swear by it, but now, with these urges pounding under his skin in time with his heart, he has a hard time recollecting what it was like to feel normal, to kiss Jess or be married to her.

What it was like to be so in love with her that he couldn't imagine anything different. He gulps down his drink and signals for another. He has to stop thinking about Jess—has to stop remembering how the first time they slept together was her eighteenth birthday.

Sam almost wants to find some girl to take into the alley behind the bar, just so that he can try to fuck Jess right out of his mind, but at the same time it makes him feel so horribly disloyal that he looks down and realises his glass is empty again.

So, not drunk enough.

And then, as he's working his way through his third vodka—this time neat—he thinks back to what he saw in his vision. This is the first time he's had those images of Dean but had them be connected to the yellow-eyed man as though the monster or whatever he is can somehow make those visions come true.

And Sam looks up blearily and picks Dean out next to him, a slightly blurry shape, and Dean turns to him, beautiful lips parted, green eyes so very green to Sam's alcohol-drenched gaze.

"Sammy," Dean says, and he sounds like he's speaking from the far end of a tunnel. And Dean leans in closer, drops his hand on Sam's shoulder, then squeezes a little. "'m wasted," Dean adds.

"Where's the girl?" Sam manages to work through his dry throat. He needs another drink.

"Gone," Dean says, looking surprised. "I don' know what 'appened."

"You didn't get lucky?" Sam asks. He lists a little to the left on his barstool and peeks up at Dean, who tightens his grip on Sam's shoulder to keep him from falling off.

"N-not my type," Dean slurs. "C'mon, back to the motel."

"But I—" Sam gestures sloppily at his empty glass.

"'e've had 'nough, I think," Dean says. He helps Sam up.

Driving back to the motel winds up being a two-man job; Sam has to grab the steering wheel more than once.

They both try to walk through the doorway at once, and their shoulders brush as Sam realises they won't fit through such a narrow doorway together.

He's turning to say so to Dean, when he sees Dean looking up at him with an expression akin to awe on his face. Dean looks—looks eager, drunk and his emotions sprawled open on his features.

They crush themselves through the door at the same time anyway, turning sideways acrobatically to fit, and it swings shut behind them.

"Happy birthday, Dean," Sam says, and then, his brain completely disengaged, he ducks down and rubs his lips gently across Dean's. It's just a brotherly kiss, the kind you give your brother when it's his birthday and—

But Dean apparently doesn't think so, because he latches onto the advance like a drowning man grabs a flotation device, and slides his lips over Sam's and then parts them.

Sam doesn't even know what he's doing any more; he slips his tongue in-between Dean's lips and then, what started out as a slightly hesitant, careful kiss turns frenzied. Sam can't get enough, and Dean's giving back just as good as he's getting, and before Sam even realises what he's doing, he's fumbling with Dean's belt, his fingers dipping below to rub at Dean's hardening dick.

His own cock is aching fiercely against the layers of fabric constraining it, and when he flips Dean's button open, his vodka-soaked brain manages to make the connection that Dean isn't wearing any underwear.

Drunk, stumbling with his legs too heavy and his head weighing about five hundred pounds, Sam accidentally shoves Dean down onto his bed and then falls half on top of him, his cock straining and hard against Dean's thigh. One of Dean's knees is bent, the other leg straight, his head against the mattress where he's fallen; Sam bruises those plush lips with the force of his kisses even as he reaches into Dean's jeans and tugs out his cock.

Dean's hands are heavy on Sam's back, sweeping down and then climbing back up beneath Sam's shirts, pushing the fabric up so that cool air hits his scorching hot skin.

Sweat is pooling in every available hollow on his body, like the little place at the base of his neck, and he can see some of it dripping onto Dean between kisses; he loses control a little bit more and bites Dean's mouth, leaves the red imprint of his teeth on Dean's lower lip.

He wraps his fingers tightly around Dean's dick and pulls, sliding the skin up over the head, and then smearing his pre-come onto his fingers and over Dean's shaft.

Dean's fingernails rake down Sam's back, and then he moves his hands around to the front, and he digs his right hand into Sam's waistband, finds Sam's cock and touches it carefully, almost reverently, and Sam jacks Dean faster, all finesse gone, lost only in the sensation of Dean's hand on him and the alcohol dulling his senses.

Unfortunately, the alcohol makes his movements more sluggish, and the dial of his kisses turns down from frantic to searching as his head begins to pound.

He pulls away from Dean suddenly, still trying to bring him off, but Dean, lips shining and eyes closed, is panting hard and yet he's going soft, and his hand on Sam is clumsy, the nails scraping sometimes way too hard against sensitive skin, and Sam lifts his head.

"Dean, Dean," he mutters, and he thinks maybe this is another vision, or a dream, and then his head flops down onto Dean's chest. Dean's breath filters into his hair, exceedingly hot.

Dean doesn't speak, just makes a frustrated noise. Sam rolls off of him, eyes closed. His hand falls onto Dean's bare hip, Dean's Levis rucked halfway down his ass on one side.

Sam wants to say something, but sleep is dragging him under. He feels his dick give a feeble twitch, but now exhaustion is winning out, and he cups his fingers over the bone of Dean's hip, feeling it press hard into his palm, as he slips away into a dreamless sleep.

Sam wakes up sweat-damp in bed, with the covers beneath him. He's alone in bed, and his head is sharply clear, now that the liquor from last night is a memory more than an actual fact.

The only trouble is, Sam can't remember whether what happened last night happened for real, or happened in the colourful world of his visions. He cracks his eyes open, his t-shirt stuck to him with drying sweat, and when he shifts on the bed, the blanket underneath him is wicked hot from his body and smells rank with his sweat. The last time he woke up like this, he'd had a fever, and Jess had been sitting beside him, one leg underneath her, holding his hand and wiping away the sweat with a washcloth.

The thing is, the inside of his boxer-briefs are crusted over with pre-come, and Sam keenly recalls the feel of Dean's palm, wide and calloused, stroking over his dick last night. He sits up, and shoots a glance around the room, but it's empty, a fact he knew even before he consciously thought about it.

That lends credence to the idea that Dean really did, in fact, have his hand down Sam's pants. Because… well, why else would Dean be gone?

Sam shakes off as much of the languor from the hang-over as he can and climbs out of bed, quickly scanning the room again, hoping Dean at least left him some money to be able to get to another town. He's already planning how to steal another car—and most of the cars in Michigan are, let's face it, junkers—when he catches a glimpse of Dean's boxers underneath the cot.

He makes a circuit of the room, and in his examination he finds Dean's duffle stuffed in the corner and Dean's favourite knife on the bathroom sink. Sam sighs, amazingly relieved, and then it really hits him: he acted on those impulses last night. He tried to fuck Dean, and he might have succeeded if not for how absolutely wasted they both were.

He stands in the bathroom in front of the mirror for a minute, and then his stomach churns and he lands on his knees in front of the toilet, puking up the alcohol from last night and probably the last of his morals as well.

What was he thinking? If Dean never speaks to him again, Sam won't be surprised. When he manages to lean his head on the side of the seat—all the while trying not to think about the things a person will do when nauseated and hung-over—he checks his watch. It's 6:32 in the morning, which suggests that perhaps the reason Dean's stuff is still here is because Dean didn't expect Sam to wake up this early. Maybe Dean was still planning to try and sneak away and leave Sam behind.

The thought kills Sam inside; what will he do, without Jess, without his poor children, and now, to lose Dean? How can he carry on, losing Dean too?

Why did he do such a stupid, thoughtless, careless thing? It probably just cost him his brother, and Sam will certainly never be able to look his father in the eye again, even if he should get the chance to visit him in prison.

Sam closes his eyes. That's it, he thinks. He resigns himself to being all alone again.

And then the vision from the previous night comes back to him. The yellow-eyed man promising Sam—he had promised Sam Dean if Sam did what he wanted, but it looks like Sam may have gotten a bit of Dean anyway all on his own.

He's floating pleasantly in a numb state of shock, eyes still shut, when he hears the door open, followed by:

"Hey, Sammy, don't fall asleep there. That's totally not sanitary."

Sam winches his eyes open again and Dean's standing in the doorway, dark circles under his eyes and the laugh lines at the corners sharply pronounced. His brother looks like he didn't sleep at all.

Dean's lips are pale, too, and his freckles are prominent in the white oval of his face. He looks exhausted and worn down and yet he comes into the bathroom, picks up his knife—Sam has a second of fear that Dean is going to gut him with it—and then Dean stashes it in the sheath inside his boot and kneels down beside Sam.

"I'm an idiot," Sam says. Dean's brow creases, his eyes dark and unreadable.

"C'mon," Dean says, not responding directly. He gives Sam a hand up, then flushes the toilet, wrinkling his nose at Sam. "I'm putting you back to bed."

"We, we got a case," Sam protests weakly, but his legs feel like limp noodles, rubbery and unable to hold him. His stomach is still unsettled and his brain is still in overdrive, but Dean hauls him back into the room proper and lowers him to Dean's cot, which is blissfully clean-smelling—besides the bleach and starch scents, of course.

"Are you gonna act like a moron?" Dean asks, and he sweeps some of the hair out of Sam's eyes. "Come to think of it, you need a shower. Jesus, Sam, did you forget how to take care of yourself?"

"You were just as toasted as I was," Sam says, eyes closing again. "I don't see how you're so perky this morning."

"I'm not," Dean says. "I've just had a lot of coffee and some aspirin. Which, by the way, I brought you some coffee. You should drink it, and then, if you have the energy, shower. Because, dude, you stink."

Dean doesn't say the words, like sex, but Sam figures they're probably implied. He swallows through words he can't say aloud and allows Dean to muscle him the rest of the way onto the cot.

When Dean brings him his coffee, it's just the way Sam has always liked it. Sam shouldn't be surprised that Dean remembers, but for some reason the first few sips make him feel even guiltier, even more like he's taken advantage of something, crossed a line he never should have crossed.

But Dean doesn't mention the fact that they almost had sex last night, or that Sam's tongue had been in his mouth; Dean doesn't draw attention to the slight marks still in his bottom lip from Sam's teeth, or the shining black-and-blue flower at the base of his throat, off-centre just a little.

Sam wants to pretend that Dean got those marks from some chick last night, that Dean didn't spend the last hours of his birthday giving Sam something Sam wanted, likely only because Sam seemed to want it.

After all, Dean has always done for Sam whatever he could. If Dean could—if Dean could fuck Sam without puking, he would do it.

Sam groans and barely gets the rest of the coffee down. His head doesn't hurt that much, and the pain in his stomach might be from his stupid indiscretion. The coffee, though, reinvigorates him, and he manages to sit up again.

Dean's sharpening his knife on the whetstone and Sam opens his mouth, not quite sure what he's going to say, when Dean looks up.

Dean has a guilty expression like a stain on his face, but he stops sharpening the knife and says,

"Don't worry about it, Sammy. Best not to think about it."

Sam still wants to say something—he's not even sure if it's an apology or a desperate attempt to get Dean to admit he liked it or maybe even a plea for Dean to stay—but his brain is a desert when it comes to the right words.

"Take a shower, Sam," Dean says gently. "Then we'll get moving on our next case."

Sam accepts Dean's advice, though, and takes a shower. When he soaps up his dick, though, to clean away the crust of pre-come, he remembers Dean's hand on him and he can almost feel it instead of his own. As he washes the evidence away like he's washed away so much blood over the years, he thinks about how not only did he try to fuck his brother—idiot—but it was like he'd completely forgotten Jess. And that thought makes him feel shame, because it would seem that just a taste of Dean, a touch, and Sam's almost as far gone in love with his brother as he ever was with his wife.

Which isn't even true, Sam tells himself viciously. A person can't fall in love with their own flesh and blood. Yeah, maybe sometimes really fucked-up siblings—like you and Dean—screw around with each other, but no way a person can have something like real love—like the love he had with Jess—with his brother.

And then Dean comes into the bathroom, and Sam can hear him pissing even over the pounding of the water on the tile, and when Dean flushes the toilet and sends scalding water cascading down over Sam's head, the back of his neck, dripping from his hair—that's when Sam blushes lobster-red from equal parts shame and desire and discovers that he feels just as strongly about Dean as he did about Jess. And in the same fucking way; it suddenly makes sense why he could kiss Dean or touch him when he should still be devastated over the loss of his wife.

Sam is disastrously in love with his older brother. He lets his head hit the tiled wall with a 'thunk' and just keeps it there 'til Dean leaves the bathroom.

What in the name of holy fuck is he going to do?

The yellow-eyed man seemed to know what Sam wanted before Sam ever knew what Sam wanted. It appears that whomever—or whatever—he is, he knows things about Sam no one should be able to know.

Sam knows he needs Dean, and he knows that if Dean were to leave that Sam would have nothing left of value in his life, but... but Sam is terrified now.

What does the yellow-eyed man want? And will he hurt Dean to achieve it? Will he dangle Dean like a meat on a hook until Sam falls into line?

Sam shivers under the cold spray of the shower.

How long can this go on, before Sam has to explain to Dean just what he sees in his visions?

It feels so good to be driving away from the M-21, to be leaving Michigan in the rearview mirror and moving on. Logically, Sam knows that simply leaving a place won't cause what happened there to stay behind, but he still hopes, as he watches it grow distant in the side mirror, that what occurred between him and Dean will stay there.

Ten hours of Metallica is a lot to expect any person to endure, much less Sam, who gets sick of the same tape after about twenty miles, but Dean never seems to grow tired of it; he sings along for the first couple of hours before falling into silence when his voice begins to go hoarse.

Sam doesn't know what Dean's thinking, but his brother's quiet and slumped down in his seat for awhile; Sam goes back and forth between staring out the window at a shapeless landscape that never seems to change—darkness falling quickly and leaving everything but the little bit of land beneath the pools of light from the streetlamps to his imagination—and casting rapid, aborted glances at Dean.

Dean doesn't seem to notice. If he does, he's much better at hiding things than Sam remembers, but that's not really a surprise. Sam still can't believe, sometimes, that he's sitting next to Dean in the Impala like the intervening nine years never happened.

Sam keeps expecting Dean to stop for the night, or to offer the keys to Sam and ask him to drive, but his brother simply carries on, silent now, in the Impala for miles upon miles until they finally cross the state line into West Virginia.

It's at that point, with Sam still holding the map, eyes half-closed, dozing in the passenger seat, when Dean says,

"Hey, Sammy."

Sam pops his eyes open and focuses with difficulty on Dean. "Yeah?"

"Don't feel guilty."

Sam is too tired and still too woozy from what amounts to no real, deep sleep to completely comprehend what Dean's getting at, but he thinks it has something to do with Dean's lips under his, Dean's skin warm and firm under his fingertips.

He gulps and turns his face back to the window, where faint streaks of purple are starting to feather through the sky like streamers.

"The cheapest motel in the area we'll be staying in is in Lewisburg. America's Best Value Inn," Sam says, running his tongue along his teeth and gums, trying to rehydrate his mouth, which is sour and dry from sleeping.

"Probably has orange walls and a plumbing that clanks and rings all night," Dean mutters, but Sam already knows that Dean's used to things like that by now, anyway.

"It might have naked women cut-outs in the wallpaper," Sam offers, but his mouth still feels like it's been stuffed with lint for the last several hours. "Look, Dean, can we stop for breakfast before we check in?"

Dean flicks his eyes towards Sam, and looks like he's about to argue, when Sam's stomach growls loudly, complaining about the fact that they haven't eaten since dinner before they left Michigan. Sam can't really say he's sorry to have left Michigan behind, though.

Then again, from the looks of things, West Virginia isn't going to be that much more fun to be stuck in, though hopefully not for as long. Sam adds a fervent prayer to that that he doesn't get injured again, now that his rib is finally healed.

"You see any IHOPs," Dean says, "I want pancakes."

"Duly noted," Sam replies, but even in the pre-dawn light, he still doesn't see much of anything besides trees and vegetation. As the Impala streaks by some little overgrown bushes, birds flutter up into the lightening sky, and Sam puts a hand on the glass of the window, counting them as they scatter. It's easier than allowing his mind to wander back onto oft-treaded paths.

Sometimes, he thinks as he watches the birds wheel in the sky, his mind follows the same tracks around and around in circles, and this morning, it wants to travel down the rutted path that takes him back to a dilapidated, deserted cottage in overgrown weeds in the very back of his mind. Inside, Sam knows, are the memories of Dean he's tried to hide.

If Dean's aware of Sam's preoccupation, he gives no indication. His brother is placid, hands loose on the steering wheel, eyes on the endless ribbon of highway in front of him.

The birds disappear into the distance and Sam is left alone with nothing but his thoughts for company. With Dean in the seat beside him, there's nothing to distract him from sidelong glances at Dean's physique: his worn Levis stretched across his powerful thighs, his chest broad under the leather jacket and faded light blue t-shirt.

Sam sighs and closes his eyes again, only to be startled into yelping in a totally non-girl-like fashion when Dean whaps him on the knee.

"You're supposed to be keeping your eyes peeled for someplace to eat, since you were the one who wanted to stop," Dean says, and Sam is abruptly cognizant that Dean has been aware of Sam this entire time, and he wonders just what Dean has been thinking about. Whether Dean is able to tell what Sam has been thinking about. The thought claws at his mind painfully and he turns his head away from Dean.

"Yeah, well, I'm still tired," he says lamely.

"You're still a freak, is what you are," Dean says cheerfully, as though he's not exhausted from driving. Sam peeks at Dean from out of the corner of his eye, and tries not to own that—to own the idea that he is a freak, and has been one all along.

"So, Mrs. Dayton, do you think you could tell me exactly what happened the night before you were taken to the hospital?"

"I ain't crazy," Patricia Dayton says with steel in her tone. This is clearly not a woman who is frail or likely to fall apart at the sight of a spider or rat. Her hair is immaculately curled and she smells clean, like apples and baby powder, and Sam can tell that she's not crazy. Even in the psych ward, she's obviously well-taken care of, and he doesn't think it's the hospital's doing.

"No, ma'am, of course not," Sam says soothingly. "Sometimes, well, things just seem a little overwhelming. It doesn't mean that what you think happened isn't real."

"I don't need no patronising, either," she snaps, looking from Dean back to Sam. "Seems like you two boys are just two more in a long line of people who want to gawk at the mayor's daughter for being crazy."

"Naturally not, Mrs. Dayton," Dean says, voice whiskey-smooth, just like Dean tends to be. "We just want to get to the bottom of things. Do you mind if we check out the crime scene?"

"If you mean my house, Mr. Turner, it's not a crime scene. The police say that because I did this—" she rolls up her sleeves "—to myself that there's nothing to be done with my house. And my husband comes home every weekend and sleeps there, so he claims he's never seen a single thing."

Sam leans forward. "Holy shit," he says, and then, "pardon my French, ma'am. And how did you say these markings occurred?"

All up and down her arms are scratches, thick and deep. But what sets them apart from obvious, self-inflicted wounds is that, with a careful eye, one can tell that there are what appear to be four claw marks in lines equidistant from each other. He catches Dean's eye; they could've been made by a razor or other sharp object, but it's unlikely, especially considering that the marks are so uniform. Dean nods.

"I was sleeping," she says. "I was dreaming of devils—and yes, I know how that sounds—and I was in excruciating pain, being tortured. When I woke up, I had these marks, and that was two weeks ago, and as you can see, they are still as fresh as if I got them this morning. The doctors are convinced I keep reopening the wounds, but I ask you, Mr. Bachman, how could that happen in a psychiatric hospital like this one?"

"I am certain I couldn't say," Dean remarks, and she pulls her sleeves back down to cover the injuries.

"Mrs. Dayton," Sam says in his most compassionate tone, "please give us permission to examine your house. We might be able to help you."

"If you must," she says. "There is a spare key underneath the lilac flowerpot at the back porch."

"Thank you for your time," Dean says, and pats her hand. And then he stands up, and puts his palm over Sam's shoulder-blade, turning him away from the woman in the chair and steering him out of the room and back down the hall.

Once outside, walking briskly towards the Impala, Dean says,

"Dude, we gotta get her back into the house, or we might never solve the case. Obviously whatever is in that house has it in for her, if it's not bothering her husband."

"What do you think it is?" Sam asks.

"I haven't the first clue," Dean replies. "I don't know of anything that can invade dreams and cause physical markings like that. Well, except for the demons Dad refers to in his journal."

"Well, if they just bought this house—"

"Even if they did, why her, and not her husband?"

"Maybe because her husband seems to travel a lot. Whatever's there might be angry about sharing the space, and Patricia Dayton would be home alone and often."

Sam scrubs a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes.

"I know you don't wanna do it, Sammy, but you know as well as I do that it's just as likely we won't find anything unless we bring her back into the house."

"How are we going to get her out of the psych ward, then?" Sam asks, grabbing Dean's arm and stopping him in the middle of the parking lot. "It's not like they're just going to let her go home."

Dean grins suddenly, wicked and obscenely bright in the sunlight. "If we are from another facility, transporting her, then we should be able to just wheel her right out of there."

Sam squints into the sunlight, trying to bring Dean's features into clearer focus. "And if we succeed, and take care of whatever's in the house, then that would get her back home. Without the trouble of trying to get her discharged."

"Well, technically..." Dean's grin turns sly. "I know someone who is excellent at breaking into computer systems. We don't even need to talk to anyone; we just need you to mark her as available for discharge to another psych facility, and then we play dress-up, go in, bring her out, and take her home. The paper trail will lead nowhere, and as long as nothing else bad happens, she'll be able to stay home without any further trouble."

"Except her husband," Sam reminds Dean. "Her husband is going to want to know how—"

"If we save her, she'll back up our story, Sammy. And then if her husband asks the hospital, well, they'll say she was discharged."

"I suppose it could work," Sam says dubiously. "What if her husband is involved? What if that's why the demon, or whatever it is, doesn't bother him?"

Dean looks grave then, eyes dark and grim. "Then I'll have to take care of him."

"Dean! You can't just kill the guy!"

"I have to do something," Dean says. "I'm not going to let that woman rot in there forever when she's obviously been the victim of some supernatural force."

Sam starts walking again, and Dean follows, his hand fluttering for a moment next to Sam's shoulder. "We need to go check out the house."

Back at the motel, Sam and Dean pack a duffle to bring to the house, and as Sam moves to reach for a knife, Dean reaches across in the other direction for his holy water, and for just a split second, their lips are almost close enough to touch, the heat of Dean's breath searing Sam's skin as they stare at each other.

He swallows and ducks his head down and away, and the spell is broken. But not before his traitourous body remembers the way it felt to press against the hard muscle of Dean's body.

"Let's go," Dean says, and his hand rubs against Sam's collarbone as he draws it back with the holy water clutched in his fingers. Sam doesn't think the caress is deliberate, but oh, how badly he wishes it were.

The Impala pulls into White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia, and Dean navigates them to Church Street, which is where Patricia Dayton lives.

The house looks completely innocuous. With thoughts of demons whirling around in his mind, Sam was almost expecting to see a house like the Amityville house, with windows that looked like eyes glaring down at the street, but instead it's huge, white, and ancient-looking, like its been standing for hundreds of years.

It's a beautiful house, too, with gables and a wraparound porch, and Sam looks down once more to double-check the address on the little slip of paper he's holding. Just as his eyes move away from the house, something flirts with the edges of his vision, and he jerks and his gaze snaps to an upper window. Once he's looking directly at it, though, there's nothing there.

"All right, Sammy," Dean says. "You man the camera, and I'll take the EMF meter. We gotta sweep the whole place, and I wasn't really expecting it to be this big."

"I thought I saw something," Sam says, still staring at the window. He points. "Up there, in that window. We should start there—especially if that turns out to be the master bedroom."

Dean pats Sam's thigh, which weirds Sam out a little. It's like Dean suddenly can't stop touching him, when before he couldn't seem to keep his hands far enough away from Sam.

"Let's go, dude," Dean says. Sam nods, and they get out of the car.

They sweep the whole first floor without finding anything. It's quiet, too quiet really; Sam likens the silence to that of a cemetery at night, when even the little night creatures around pause and go soundless around the dead. Especially the dead that might rise up as a vengeful spirit at any moment. Those thoughts lead Sam to be very careful; the last thing he wants is to wind up nearly-bedridden for another whole month.

There's no EMF on the first floor, so they go upstairs carefully; Sam's got his wrists crossed with his gun in one hand and the video camera in the other. He doesn't see anything on the viewfinder, but then again, there is sunlight splashing through all of the giant picture windows, so it's probably not the time when the ghosties and ghoulies would be about anyway. Still, though.

Dean keeps just behind Sam and to the left, covering him with his own firearm, the EMF in his other hand. Sam keeps waiting for the telltale whine and ding that suggests something is there, but there's nothing. Yet Sam doesn't discount what he saw on that woman's arms with his own eyes: there is something here, somewhere. Something that wanted to hurt Patricia Dayton, and something that might have killed her if she hadn't've said something.

After some more tense minutes, Sam can't take the eerie, utter silence any more. He inclines his head towards Dean slightly and whispers,

"There's nothing, Dean. Do you see anything?"

And then Sam stops, a full-halt right in the middle of the hallway; Dean jostles his shoulder with his body as if he couldn't stop fast enough. Yet Sam has the creepy, skin-crawling sensation that Dean meant to do that. He puts it out of his mind, though, because they've come to a door. The first door in the house that has been closed, and the doorknob is glowing slightly as if there's a luminescence on it.

Sam peers through the camera, but there's nothing—and then there's something, in between one blink and the next, there's a dark shape that flits across the viewfinder so fast that Sam isn't even sure he saw it.

"Dean," he says. "There's something in there."

"Yeah, that ain't normal," Dean concurs, still pressed against Sam's shoulder and evidently staring at the knob the same way that Sam is. "I'm not sure if we should—"

But that crawling sensation fades, like Sam's not in any kind of danger, though he knows his sense of danger should be heightened, alert. He reaches out and turns the knob, and the door swings inward on perfectly oiled hinges, wide open as if Sam pushed it instead of just turning the knob.

"Yeah, that's not supposed to happen," Sam whispers, and looks up from the camera.

He's pretty sure they both see it at the same time: the wallpaper is yellow, with wide curlicues and flourishes, and that might give the impression of movement anyway, but Sam knows what he just saw. He knows that something just shifted in that wallpaper, rippled a little as if there's bugs underneath the paper.

Which is when the EMF goes crazy, and Sam is certain that whatever just moved in the wallpaper was not, in fact, something that could be explained away by bugs or mice or anything mundane.

"Jesus Christ," Dean breathes behind Sam. "Never saw anything like that before." He muscles around Sam so that he's standing in front of him, his gun pointed, but there's nothing to aim at. The EMF settles to a low whine, and whatever was there is gone.

Sam scans the room, and realises it's a day room of some sort; there's a chaise longue at the far end of the room, which is huge. There's also a sofa that kitty-corners the wall on the other side, and two end tables on either side of the cushy furniture.

Sam takes a breath and walks around Dean, their shoulders touching intimately as he does; he circles the room and discovers that the sofa—which extends on one side the length of an armchair but on the other side is like a full-sized couch—turns out into a bed. He runs a finger along the incredibly soft fabric and looks over at Dean.

"She might have slept in here," he says. "I think we should have asked her if she was having marital problems—enough to keep her sleeping someplace besides her own bed with her husband at night."

"That's a really personal question," Dean comments, but he smiles at Sam. "Though you're right, and when we bring her back here, we are going to have to ask some sticky questions."

"There was definitely something here," Sam says. Dean comes further into the room and Sam closes the door; behind it is a giant china cabinet filled with little glass animal figurines. Sam walks over to it, examines them, and there's a whole zoo of different animals, from monkeys to pigs to little bears standing on their hind legs. As he leans in, their little black eyes reflect the green-blue of his own, and then something slides, oily-slick, across the surface of one of the pigs.

"Dean..." he says, and his brother is next to him in a matter of moments. "Look at their eyes."

His brother looks, then sucks in a breath like he's been punched in the lungs. "That is not normal," Dean whispers, and the EMF in his hand goes wild yet again. The closer Sam peers at them, the more he can tell that some of the little animals—all the little glass pigs—are looking back.

"When you look into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you," Sam breathes. "Those little glass animals—inanimate objects—are staring at us."

He straightens up and away from the curio cabinet, and as he does so, the door slams completely shut. Sam whips his head around, but the windows are closed and latched. There's a fine wind curling through his hair like ghostly fingers, though, and Sam feels oddly welcome here. It's a totally disconcerting thought.

Dean backs away from the china cabinet, his gun aimed, but there's a loud concussion of sound behind them, and they both whirl to face it.

Which is when Dean goes flying through the air, straight into the cabinet. Glass tinkles and breaks and smashes all around his brother, and Sam screams,

"Dean!" like that might help, then runs for his brother. Half-way there an invisible force stops him; he can't move forward another step. Dean is slumped against the broken cabinet now, his head lolling down against his shoulder, apparently unconscious. "Dean! Wake up, Dean. God, get out of my way!" Sam yells, and pushes against whatever is restraining him. It gives suddenly and without warning and the thick atmosphere that had been choking him, climbing down his throat, vanishes.

He falls to his knees next to Dean and cups his face, turns it up to examine; there's a fine trickle of blood dribbling down from the corner of Dean's lips, and there's tiny cuts from slivers of glass all over him. Sam knows it's time to leave; he has to get Dean back to their motel and clean out all of the shards of glass so none of them get infected.

"Dean," he whispers. His brother's eyelids flutter and then open slowly. Dean blinks, takes a breath, and winces.

"For fuck's sake," he murmurs as though winded, "I gotta stop getting thrown into walls. Man, that stings."

"C'mon, it's time to go," Sam says, trying to help Dean to his feet. "We can come back with Mrs. Dayton and try and figure out what's going on, but for right now, we gotta get you back and take care of—" Sam gestures and Dean winces again at the sight of the glass lodged in his hands.

When he gets Dean out of the wreckage of the cabinet, leaning heavily against him, Sam can see that most of the little glass animals are shattered. Except... all the little pigs, which are eerily still standing on their little legs, their black eyes sentient. Sam shivers and reaches for the door, yanks it open.

Sam would've preferred to get Dean out of the house as quickly as possible, but his brother is almost a dead-weight against him, and the house is freakin' huge.

It takes them fifteen minutes to get back outside to the Impala, and the sun is bright and welcome, chasing away the shadows in Sam's brain. He settles Dean, still a little woozy, in the passenger seat, then looks back up at that window.

A thin, wispy shadow wavers past the window and disappears.

Sam drives way over the speed limit away from that house—but not because he's afraid.

No, because he feels like it was speaking to him, welcoming him, asking him to stay. And that is what terrifies him.

Dean has glass everywhere: his forehead, down his chest, even inside his boots. Sam gets the tweezers from their first-aid kit and begins the painstaking process of removing each tiny glass sliver from Dean's skin.

His brother is sitting on the closed toilet lid—and Sam remembers this set-up from years ago, ages ago—and he's topless, his jeans slung low on his hips, his skin glittering in the harsh fluorescent light due to the glass embedded like diamonds in it.

Sam has a magnifying glass to go along with his tweezers, and each tiny piece of glass gets dumped into one of the complimentary paper cups that came with the room.

"Tell me if I hurt you," Sam says, but Dean doesn't respond; Sam knows that his brother won't say a word even if Sam manages to accidentally gouge out a chunk of flesh.

It takes almost three hours to get all the glass he can find, and when he's finished, Dean is bleeding from a thousand tiny breaks in his skin. Even though, Sam looks at all that naked skin and wishes that he were allowed to kiss the wounds—to taste Dean's blood as it mixes with the tang of his sweat and the slight flavour of his skin that Sam can't forget.

Sam stretches, his back aching from leaning over for so long, and he just drinks in the sight of Dean: even with the little pinpricks of blood, Dean is impossibly beautiful. He's got his flaws like everyone, and scars marked like words into his skin, but he still looks good enough to eat to Sam, who is surprised all over again that most of the negative feelings that used to belong with those lustful feelings are gone.

"Sammy," Dean whispers. He's talking quiet like if he raises his voice something bad will happen, and Sam is caught up in that same web, feeling like spun sugar surrounds them, the strands of connection easily snapped. And he does not want that to happen.

"I'm gonna get some alcohol pads," Sam says, voice curiously choked up. He gets to his feet and rolls his shoulders, his neck. But he can't quite take his eyes off Dean long enough to reach into the first-aid kit for the little pre-packaged alcohol pads.

Dean is staring back up at him with something wide open and almost wounded in his eyes. Like he's hurting inside, not from all of those little cuts, or the bruises scattered across his chest and shoulders. Something Sam can't—no, something Sam is afraid to read in his brother's eyes.

Michigan comes back in a rush, Dean's birthday, the drinks he should've left alone and the girl that never came back with them; the way he had Dean's skin under his tongue.

It's like a spectre: it won't retreat and nothing Sam does can banish it. He's left staring just as dumbfounded at Dean, struck all at once with the idea that maybe Dean is thinking of the same things, that Dean is remembering the way Sam felt on top of him.

Sam forcibly turns his head, the bones in his neck popping, and rummages for the alcohol pads. He doesn't look in Dean's eyes again, just cleanses each tiny wound and tries not to hear the hiss of Dean's breath in and out of his lungs as the rubbing alcohol stings.

He uses up every last one of the pads in their stash and knows that he's going to have to go out and replenish the supply, probably tomorrow, because evening is coming down on them quickly and Sam—well, Sam wants to put the TV on and try to pretend that Dean isn't sitting less than six inches away from him half-naked.

Unfortunately, his dick likes the idea of Dean being half-naked way too much: he's hard, almost fully, inside his jeans, and his cock rubs against the seam of his jeans with every tiny movement of his body.

"Sammy, look at me," Dean says softly, and he sounds vulnerable at the same time that the note of command rings through. Sam doesn't know how he managed that, but he meets Dean's eyes again. They're so green, so filled with something Sam is still terrified of. "C'mere," his brother says. "Kneel down."

Sam has never taken orders well, but he gets to his knees anyway, his face mere breaths away from Dean's. And then Dean reaches out with just one finger, and runs it along Sam's jaw. He's not commanding when he gently urges Sam to tilt his head, but Sam follows his lead anyway, paralysed by the feelings welling up inside him like blood.

Sam should've seen it coming, but yet he's still taken utterly by surprise when Dean kisses him. Dean's lips still taste faintly of blood from where Sam pulled glass out of them as well, but Dean doesn't complain that it hurts.

Sam keeps his eyes open, but Dean's are closed, and he can see miniscule freckles he didn't even know his brother had on his closed lids; he can count every pore, even the ones that are a little bit inflamed, the imperfections that no-one can see 'til you get up close—he sighs into the kiss and shuts his eyes.

Dean's tongue enters Sam's mouth, and he touches the tip of it to Sam's; Sam breathes through his nose, nostrils flaring, arousal flaring, and takes over, crushing their lips together, heedless of the injuries. He sucks at Dean's mouth, eats from it like it's the Tree of Knowledge and it can somehow save him, and then, just before he's going to pull away to look at Dean, to glance down and see if Dean's as turned on as he is, something happens and he—

—is standing in that grassy meadow with the yellow flowers again. There's a man standing there, looking confused, his eyes clear blue. Sam turns in a circle, slowly, looking for the yellow-eyed man, but there's just the two of them. When he glances back, the blue eyes have flipped to yellow, glowing and piercing.

"Seems like we're back here again, Sammy-boy," the man says. "Just like always, the two of us keep meeting up for trysts like lovers."

"I don't have any control over that," Sam says fiercely. "You think I want—you think I like this?" Even wrapped up in the sticky coating of the vision, Sam knows his head hurts.

"Oh, but you do," the man says. He smiles, poisonous and predatory. "Remember what happened back at that house?" He snaps his fingers and Sam opens his mouth to protest and says, loudly—

"I don't know what the fuck happened back there!" And then Sam claps a hand over his mouth and he's staring straight at Dean, the pain flooding out of his head, leaving him feeling drained. Dean's lips are puffy from their kiss. Sam feels his stomach roil unpleasantly, forebodingly.

"Sammy," Dean says. "Are you okay? Did I—God, I'm sorry, you can have a free shot at me if you like," Dean blathers, coming off the toilet seat and winding up half-sprawled across Sam's lap, touching his face as if he's searching for injuries. "Are you all right? What happened?"

"Just..." Sam pauses to collect himself. "Just another one of my episodes. Happens." He shakes his head. What did the yellow-eyed man mean? He could control them? He could stop them from occurring?

Sam searches Dean's eyes and finds only understanding. His brother's not running away, not taking a swing at him, not looking scandalised. In fact... Dean really does look like he enjoyed that kiss, in spite of the worry now crossing his features.

"He keeps saying I can have... I think he meant I could have you," Sam says slowly. "But that's stupid. Crazy."

"But you do have me," Dean says. Sam shifts uncomfortably.

"I mean, like..."

Dean sighs. "Sam, you can have that too, if you want. I don't know who the man is, but he's not an authority on Winchesters."

"Seems to think he knows an awful lot about me," Sam whispers.

Dean leans in and kisses him again, quickly, there and gone. "Doesn't know everything. Only I know everything about you, Sam."

"He's got... he's got yellow eyes," Sam confides at last. "Some type of monster. Keeps breaking into my consciousness and transporting me—not physically, obviously—somewhere else."

"I never heard of any creature with yellow eyes either," Dean says. "I'll have to check Dad's journal, see if he knew anything."

Sam cups his hand over the back of Dean's neck, feels the bristles of his short hair scratch his palm as he pulls Dean down again. A hairsbreadth away from his lips, Sam says,

"I should hate this," and kisses Dean. Dean kisses back, and it's not the shock Sam's expecting, nor does the sky come crashing down on top of them.

When they both come up for air, it feels like they've cleared the air. Sam feels a weight lift away from his chest, like he can take a full breath for the first time in months—and not because of his newly healed rib, either.

"We still have to solve this case," Dean says. "Let's break out the beer and relax for the rest of tonight, go see Mrs. Dayton again tomorrow. You need to use your super-special computer skills by then, Sammy. Tomorrow morning, though. Tonight is just... for us to get back in the right headspace. And Sam?"

Sam nods, looking expectantly at Dean.

"We'll figure out the other thing, I promise," Dean says. And Sam knows that a promise to Dean is an unbreakable vow. His brother won't let him down.

Dean goes out early the next morning to procure supplies for their rescue mission, which they have decided will take place around 2 p.m.

Sam's phone rings at exactly 11:02 a.m. and he picks it up, still intent on the laptop screen, and he hears the crackle of what could be a bad connection... but he knows it isn't.

He'd put the last ghostly phone call out of his mind, but he should have known better. Just because Jess hadn't called him back didn't mean she was gone, and he should have taken precautions. Even though Sam knows he took precautions anyway, obviously he didn't finish the job; he sighs and says,

"Hello?"

"Sam," Jess whispers through the cellophane-crackling sound. "You know what you're doing is wrong. Have you forgotten me? Have you forgotten our—"

"No," Sam growls into the phone. "No, I haven't forgotten. If you knew me at all, you'd know I wouldn't forget—couldn't forget. Just leave me alone."

"I can still remember kissing you," she says wistfully. Sam can almost believe that he's really speaking to her, but he tempers himself with the reminder that she's dead, and that even if this communication is real, it's still inherently wrong.

"I know," Sam says at last, sadness burrowing into his chest. "I love you, Jess, but you have to move on. You have to."

"You know I can't, Sammy-boy," she says. Sam touches the phone with one finger where it rests against his face. He thinks of her beautiful face, of her vibrant personality, reduced to this: ashes and a spirit that is clinging to earth.

"Why," Sam asks desperately. "Why are you still here?"

"Because of you," she replies simply. "Because I love you. I'm watching you, Sam. Please—please remember me."

The crackle fades and the phone sits silent against Sam's ear. He puts it down on the table and stares at it, trying to make sense of things. She didn't really speak like a ghost—she was too coherent for that. Too adamant about saying things that she would know were hurtful; Sam slams the flat of his palm down against the table. Someone, something, is fucking with him.

If Jess loved him—and Sam knows she did—then she wouldn't go out of her way to hurt him.

Nevertheless, Sam gets up and goes to his duffle, finds the place at the bottom where the seam is carefully re-stitched, and rips out the threads. He always knew he shouldn't have kept them, knew that he was just hanging on to things that were gone forever, but at the last minute Sam couldn't bring himself to let them burn with the rest of their house.

Sam lifts out the slender gold band with the heart-shaped diamond, and the thicker gold band inscribed with Forever love on the inside. His wedding band, and her engagement ring. He looks at the gorgeous, perfectly-cut heart and feels one tear slide down his face.

He kisses the ring and lifts it up to the light, watches the way the colours spark and refract. And then he takes both of the rings and shoves them into his pocket. He's pretty sure that any hospital will have an incinerator.

But even as he contemplates burning away the last piece of Jess he still has, he thinks of Dean. Of how sweet it is to kiss Dean.

Of how much, how pathetically in love with his brother he is. His phone is still sitting, quiet, innocuous, on the table; Sam remembers Jess, but even though the grief is still there, it's faded, encased in glass and put away now. The way he feels about Dean has replaced some of the acuteness of the sadness he's felt about Jess in the past.

Sam closes his eyes and fingers the jewellery in his pocket, and as he does so, he hears the faint echo of the screaming. He hasn't heard it in awhile, and with everything that has been going on, he's almost managed to forget the pained sound of his children. Hell, maybe he wasn't cut out to be a father.

Because even though his poor kids are gone, he doesn't really think of them.

"It's not her," Dean says at once, when Sam tells him later about the two phone calls he got from his dead wife. Dean is pulling blue scrub pants up over his hips, tying the drawstring and then shrugging the v-neck shirt over his head.

Sam discovers his scrub pants are a little too short, and Dean grins ruefully when Sam starts yanking on socks to cover his bare ankles.

"All they had; sorry, little brother."

"It sure sounded like her," Sam says, flipping his hair out of his eyes and adjusting the shirt, which strains across his broad shoulders. "I took care of the records. Everything should be in order to just go in and bring her out. Dean, I hate this idea. Whatever's in that house tried to hurt you. Probably tried to kill you, and I know it wants to kill Patricia. We shouldn't bring her back there."

"We have to find out what it wants, what it is, so we can deal with it," Dean says reasonably. "We will be there with her, to protect her, Sammy."

"She did say some odd things," Sam muses. "I don't know what to think about it. I'll figure something out. C'mon, Dean, it's almost time to go."

"You can't blame yourself," Dean says. "And you're right. You got everything you need?"

Sam nods. "Let's go impersonate orderlies and break someone out of the psych ward," he says, and grins. Somehow, the idea of that cheers him up.

"You're kidding," Mrs. Dayton says when they walk into the room dressed like the rest of the staff. "You're crazy, both of you."

"We know there's something in your house," Sam says gently. "You are absolutely not crazy, and you don't belong here."

"This is kind of what we do," Dean adds, as he helps her into the wheelchair he stole from the nurse's station. "We, uh, take care of things like this. We're gonna do what needs to be done to make your home safe, so you can stay there."

"All right," Sam says in an undertone. "Quiet, now, Dean," he says as they start to wheel her down the hall. Her sack of belongings are hanging from Sam's elbow.

The walls along the hall are cheerful, painted yellow with pretty sprigs of flowers bordering the top. Dean pushes the wheelchair and Sam pretends to flip through a folder full of blank pages they're using to represent her 'chart'.

"I don't want to go back there," she says softly. She's trembling a little, her knees shaking beneath the white blanket across her lap.

"I'm sorry for that," Dean says, "really. I'm sorry."

The escape goes off without a hitch, and they carefully settle her into the backseat of the Impala.

Just before they drive away, Dean pulls out Dad's journal and hands it to Sam. "See if there's anything of use in there on the drive over."

Sam opens the journal and starts trying to decipher the lines of writing that could just as easily be the prints of dancing monkeys, for all he can read it.

But something catches his eye: Demons will often leave behind a sulphuric residue; it is best when attempting to identify a demon to look for such a residue. Dealing with demons, as well, works with a Devil's Trap and an exorcism.

He looks out the window and thinks about what they saw at the house. Could John be right—could demons exist?

Sam remembers hours upon hours of Latin lessons with Pastor Jim, and he knows that he was taught to pronounce Latin properly—to understand it—for a reason, but he didn't realise that this is what it was for, until he finds the exorcism, all in Latin.

"I hope this is not a demon," Sam hisses under his breath at Dean, leaning in impossibly close. He has to stall himself from kissing the tender side of Dean's neck.

"If it is, we'll still be ready," Dean says. "I know I said I didn't know if they existed, but after our last trip to this house, I think I'm ready to be convinced."

Right then, Dean's cell phone rings. Dean fumbles it out of his pocket and tosses it to Sam, and Sam flips it open and says,

"Yeah?"

"Sam? Sammy, is that you?" John says on the other line, and Sam feels every organ in his body grow heavy and sink down into his feet.

"Yeah, it is, Dad," Sam says in resignation.

"You be careful," John says. "I know what you're doing, and it's dangerous, Sam. It's especially dangerous for you. You shouldn't—shouldn't do this. Sit this one out, Sam; let Dean take care of it."

"No," Sam says vehemently. "No way. I am not gonna let Dean go in there by himself."

"Don't ignore my warnings," John says, his most terse, authoritative voice in evidence. "You should remember the last time that you—"

"Good-bye, Dad," Sam says, and hangs up. Dean cuts him a quick, inquisitive glance, but he doesn't complain that Sam basically hung up on their father. Sam can tell, just from the way the muscle ticks in Dean's jaw, that he still struggles with his rebellion against their father, but that he was telling the truth when he said, long ago, that he had chosen Sam's side. That he had decided to go against John's orders when necessary.

"We're here," Dean says. "Time to get this show on the road."

The creepy wallpaper is just as creepy as when they left, still shimmering with the illusion—or not an illusion, terrifying prospect that that is—of movement; in the corner, behind the door, the china cabinet is in pristine condition. Sam doesn't even know how that can be possible, but he takes a deep breath and holds Patricia's elbow as she walks into the room, sits down on the sofa.

"Were you having problems with your husband?" Dean asks suddenly, without any sort of lead-in whatsoever.

"What?" she says. "No! But he's gone all the time and it gets lonely, feels wrong in that big bed without him, so I'd come in here. This is supposed to be my room, my sanctuary. I don't—I don't even know what happened, just that it's—it makes my skin crawl just to be in here."

Sam lines the doorway with salt to keep whatever it is in this one room with them, to trap it as it were. He loads up his shotgun, too, and then tosses Dean's to him.

Dean's got holy water in one hand, and the sawed-off in the other, and Sam's standing, still, just watching the way the wallpaper creeps, like there's something—someone moving behind it.

And then, even though the hair is standing up on the back of his neck because his back is to the curio cabinet, he forgets everything but Mrs. Dayton because that thin wispy shadow appears quite abruptly in front of them, then pours down her throat. Sam jumps, starts forward; Dean grabs his hand.

"Oh, shit," Dean says. "Didn't see that coming."

Sam can feel sweat seep through the underarms of his scrubs shirt, trickle down his spine. "Dean," he murmurs. He drops to one knee and pulls John's journal out of the duffle by his feet.

"It's so nice to finally meet you, Sam Winchester," says Patricia Dayton; or rather, what is now inside of Patricia Dayton.

"Okay, yeah, yup," Dean says. "Demons? Definitely real. Don't know of anything else that can possess a person."

Sam is still staring, mouth open, shell-shocked, at the woman on the sofa. Her eyes go slippery black, the void filling in every inch of her eyes.

"I don't—" he starts.

"Don't you know? Didn't daddy tell you?" it says, voice holding a sibilant quality. It bares its teeth in what might be a smile. Sam doesn't feel endangered, but he can feel the adrenaline as it ramps up inside his body.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sam says, almost drawn to converse with the thing inside her body.

"Sam!" Dean says. He grabs Sam's shoulder. "Don't talk to it, get the fucking—"

"Oh, I wouldn't," the thing says. The demon. "Not if you fancy your skin, Dean-o."

Sam reaches for Dean, but something—the same force as before—propels Dean hard into the wall. Sam cries out in shock. Dean slides up the wall, held suspended there.

Sam puts out his hand as though he can do something, and shock reels through him again when Dean just as easily drops gently back to his feet. Sam looks at his hand.

"Oh, baby!" the demon says, gleeful. "You have got the stuff daddy promised you'd have! Oh, this is delicious."

Sam can feel his heart pumping, like a frantic child locked in a closet, banging on the door. "Fuck you," he says.

"From what I hear—" the demon starts, and Sam just knows it's going to say something about Sam and Dean and their new relationship, so he puts his hand out again and snarls,

"Shut. Up."

Just like that, the demon goes silent, but it radiates menace from Patricia's eyes, now back to their regular colour.

Dean is staring at Sam like he can't believe what he's seeing, but calculating, like it's not as much of a surprise as one might expect.

"You," Sam says. "Get out of her, and go back to hell." He lifts up the journal to read from the exorcism, but the smoke flies from her mouth, curls and rises into the air, then turns the colour of fire and vanishes.

All at once the atmosphere settles to a clear, non-threatening weight, the hint of violence and the darkness of a malevolent presence gone.

Sam looks at Dean.

Dean touches the back of his head, like he bumped it pretty hard, then nods at Sam.

They make conciliatory remarks and gestures to Mrs. Dayton, and she thanks them profusely, aware as much as they are of the lack of whatever dangerous presence used to be there.

The marks on her arms are gone.

And in a matter of less than twenty minutes, Sam and Dean are gone too.

They don't talk about what happened in that house. Not at first. Mostly because as soon as Sam and Dean get back to the motel room, Sam's on Dean like a starving man who's just spied his first meal in weeks. The adrenaline that he still feels, the exotic high after a hunt—something he'd forgotten about, how addicting it could be—rushes through him, and from Dean's response, the light in his eyes, Dean feels it too. He grabs Dean by the scrub shirt and slams him back against the wooden panelled door of the room, searing their lips together, grinding his dick through the very thin fabric of his scrub pants against Dean's equally interested cock.

Dean doesn't complain about the back of his head, even though Sam knows he pushed him pretty hard.

Dean's mouth tastes like cedar and oranges, and it's exotic and intoxicating. Sam bites at Dean's lips, sips at his mouth like Dean's a fine wine that Sam can't get enough of, reaches down between them and cups underneath Dean's cock. His brother is already partway there, but with Sam's hand against him through the material of his scrub pants Dean hardens up fast. Sam rolls Dean's balls in his hand and then strokes up the length of his shaft, feeling the heat and weight of Dean's dick in his palm; all the while, he's still making out with Dean, hot and heavy and everything he never knew he wanted.

There's something about what Dean is wearing that turns Sam on even more; he rips the bow out of the tie in the pants and they droop down off Dean's hips. Sam shoves his hand inside, gets his fingers wrapped around silky hot flesh, and it's like something sparks to life in his brain—a sense memory of Dean's cock in his hands once before, and he strokes lightly at first, quick and fast but barely-there touches, and Dean gasps and pants into Sam's mouth, breath humid against Sam's face.

His own dick aches so much for friction that he winds up grinding up against his own hand and Dean's cock at once, feeling the way his caresses over Dean stimulate his own nerves.

The fire of arousal races along each nerve in his dick and he catches his breath in his throat, slips his mouth away from Dean's and touches Dean's cheekbone with his free hand, watching Dean's eyes flutter open, the green consumed by the wide dark of his pupils.

Everything stops; time, space, movement, breath. They stare into each other's eyes, and Sam knows that they are both swallowed up by the words written there. Words that will never be spoken, but Sam can feel his heart beating in his chest with the echo of Dean's just behind it, the knowledge that Dean shares this, that Dean knows now how Sam feels and that Dean feels the same way.

Everything comes rushing back at once in a whirl of noise and sensation and when Sam speaks, Dean's lips rub against his.

"The bed," he says, his breath jagged in his lungs. "This would be easier on a bed." He rips Dean's shirt over his head between frenzied, hungry kisses.

Dean nods, and without taking their hands off of each other they stumble over to the bed, where Sam kicks Dean's legs apart and then curves his palm around the back of Dean's head before lowering him, far more carefully and with more patience than he thought he had, to the mattress.

He yanks the scrub pants down over Dean's hips, down his legs, and tugs them, wrinkled and smushed up, over Dean's feet. He unties Dean's soft orthopedic shoes and drops them to the floor, then pushes Dean's knees up on the bed, exposing the tiny little puckered hole that Sam recognises and remembers from his time with Jess.

It's because of her that he has any idea what he's doing as he urges Dean's thighs even wider apart, and he suspects it's because of Dean's liaisons with men that Dean has any idea what to do, as his brother takes a deep breath and uses it to relax every muscle in his body, going pliant and soft on the bed.

"Don't move," he orders, and just before he gets back to his feet Dean opens his eyes, looking slightly lost yet aroused beyond belief.

"Side pocket of my duffle," he says hoarsely, throat thickened and roughened by his arousal.

Sam doesn't want to leave Dean for a moment, doesn't want to stop touching every conceivable inch of that bared skin, but he knows this can't go any farther without lube, so he hurries over to the duffle on the floor next to the bed and scrounges around inside the pocket—breath mints, two spare bullets, a button, and three tubes of lipstick—until he finds the little clear bottle of lube.

He tosses it onto the bed next to Dean and climbs onto the mattress next to him, swings one leg over and kneels above Dean, kissing him breathless again.

Sam puts one hand on each shoulder and just hangs on for awhile, enjoying the feel and taste of Dean's mouth, the soft way his lips give under Sam's, the way Dean's plump lower lip fits perfectly between his teeth.

He takes a few moments to learn Dean's mouth in every possible way before mouthing down along Dean's jaw, stubble scraping across his lips, then down to the side of his neck. Dean arches his head the other way, neck stretching beautifully, and Sam sucks at the juncture of his shoulder, sinks his teeth into Dean's skin and leaves behind a dark swelling of blood with the prints of his teeth in it.

Dean's breath is short, erratic, as Sam moves down his body, laving scars with his tongue and realising he finds them damn sexy; kissing around each nipple in turn and then rolling them between his lips, dragging his teeth against them, and Dean shudders. Sam lowers himself down carefully so as not to crush Dean, and when Dean's dick slides up against Sam's scrub pants it leaves a streak of wetness on the fabric and then up over the waistband onto Sam's belly.

The feel of Dean's cock against his own sends a thrill of lightning up and down his spine. Sam rubs against Dean, little circles of his hips, driving their cocks together, cradled perfectly between Dean's thighs.

Sam can barely stand to part from Dean long enough to push, one-handed, his pants down over his thighs. He did something daring this time and didn't wear underwear, so his cock slaps flat against his belly with a wet sound, and then he manages to shuck them off, nudging one knee in-between Dean's thighs again to open him up further. Dean's hands rove over Sam's body, up under the thin blue shirt, and Dean toys with Sam's nipples as Sam slicks their cocks together again, this time almost blinded by the pleasure of naked flesh to naked flesh.

Sam's hair is falling sweaty into his eyes, and Dean uses one hand to swipe it away from Sam's forehead.

"Wanna see your eyes," Dean says throatily. "Wanna see your pleasure, Sammy."

Sam gasps, dick twitching hard with those words, and feels their pre-come smear together. Feels their skin slide together, the veins on Dean's dick rubbing against Sam's own.

"I'm gonna fuck you, Dean," Sam says. "So hard. Want to fuck you so bad."

"Do it," Dean says breathlessly, spine bowing off the bed as their dicks glide together, easy as pie with their pre-come slicking them up. "Want you to do it." Dean reaches down and grabs underneath one thigh, lifts it up and drops his leg over Sam's shoulder. The perspiration at the back of Dean's knee dampens the fabric at the shoulder of Sam's shirt.

Sam bites his own lips until they sting, swollen, and fumbles for the lube, getting it all over his fingers, Dean's belly, and the bed underneath Dean as he slips his fingers in between their bodies to find that puckered secret place on Dean's body.

His fingers push past the resistance far more easily than he expects; he gets two fingers into Dean and starts fucking them in and out and Dean makes a thready, strangled noise and arches his back again.

Dean's leg almost slides from Sam's shoulder, but Sam grabs it and holds it in place with one hand as he keeps moving his fingers in and out of Dean with the other. Inside of Dean is satiny and smooth; it feels rich like expensive fabric, only sweltering hot and throbbing, alive.

Sam works another finger inside Dean, and Dean grunts, muscles going taut in his thighs, and Sam pauses, as if to give Dean time to adjust, and instead Dean grinds down onto Sam's fingers, cramming them deeper inside with his movement.

Sam turns his head and bites Dean's juicy thigh, right next to his lips, and feels Dean spasm around his fingers. He pulls them free with a wet, sucking sound and then wipes leftover lube onto his dick; he pours more out of the bottle and works himself up, dick slippery, and then angles his cock so that it bumps up against Dean's hole.

He keeps his mouth fastened on Dean's thigh, his breath making the skin damp, and takes a moment to relax himself before he wraps his fingers in a tight circle around his dick and begins to ease it into Dean.

Sam's big, but the muscle is elastic and stretches to accommodate him; he knows he did a good job preparing Dean as his cock slowly slips into the sheath of Dean's body.

And then Dean's fingernails dig like claws into Sam's side, and his brother pants,

"Faster, Sam. Fuck me faster—don't be shy, don't worry about hurting me; you won't." He can barely get the words through his constricted throat, but Sam doesn't really need to hear them to understand; he drives the last several inches of his dick into Dean and comes to a rest with his balls snug into the space between Dean's ass-cheeks.

Dean bucks his hips up and Sam sinks in even deeper, encased thrillingly tight within Dean's body, his cock twitching and pulsing with his heart beat. His balls feel swollen and tender and Sam starts to move, loves the way the silk of Dean's inner walls moves with him and against him; inside of Dean is throbbing just as hard as Sam's cock.

He bites down on the corner of his lower lip and starts fucking in and out of Dean, fast and wild, the rhythm frenetic and almost panicked. His cock fills Dean up and then Sam just rocks his hips for a moment, moving their bodies together, learning the way Dean feels in every possible way, before dipping his head down, sweat thick at his temples, and kisses Dean.

Sam mimics what he's doing with his dick with his tongue in Dean's mouth, thrusting in and out, licking at Dean's lips, making their mouths wet and slick even as the lube paves the way for Sam's cock in Dean's ass.

Dean's grunting in time with every thrust, the sounds filling up Sam's mouth, and Sam can't even hear himself over the pounding of his heart, the throb and twist and ache in his dick and balls as he fucks into Dean over and over again.

Dean's leg drops from Sam's shoulder and the new position squeezes Sam's dick even tighter into Dean's body; Sam encircles Dean's cock with one hand and starts jerking him off, fast and in time with his thrusts, as he climbs ever closer to the peak of the mountain, staring over the side and ready to fall, freewheeling and pleasured to the bottom.

He sucks in a breath and manages one last, thick, pistoning thrust before his balls go achingly tight and his cock spasms and shoots off inside of Dean.

Dean makes a noise that Sam has never heard before and his head turns away from Sam, his body wracked with spasms of its own, the tendons standing out on his neck and Sam latches onto the flesh there, burns another bruise into his skin with his lips as Dean splatters Sam's belly and hand with his come.

Sam pulls out reluctantly, carefully, and collapses to the bed next to Dean.

Which is, of course, when Dean decides to let Sam in on the secret that pillow-talk, for Dean, equals shop-talk.

"So what happened back there, Sammy?" Dean asks, and Sam flattens his palm over Dean's heart, feels it fluttering rapidly against his ribs. Dean's still breathing fast.

"Telekinesis, I think," Sam says nonchalantly. He waits for the inevitable explosion, but it never comes.

He pauses to amuse himself with the double entendres in that thought, then cracks an eye open and peeks at Dean.

"You—" Dean stops. "Yeah, I shoulda known."

"You knew about this? That I could—I might—"

"Not exactly. Dad just said you'd be able to do things most people couldn't do." Dean sighs. "I don't wanna argue, though I am sure that's where this is going, but Dad did say there were others like you."

"Dead now," Sam says. "I saw it happen in those visions." Apparently sex with his brother makes him relaxed enough that it relaxes his tongue, too.

"Yeah, I saw the news articles," Dean says. "But you... you sent that demon back to hell."

Sam rolls onto his side, ready to try and come up with an explanation, and then—

—Sam is standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down. He closes his eyes and spreads his arms and takes one final step off the side. Instead of feeling like he's falling, he feels like he's flying, and as he speeds towards what is most likely his death, he sees Jess at the wheel of her car, her eyes perfectly in Sam's view, her lips turned in an expression of fear even as her eyes fill with poisonous yellow.

And it all suddenly makes sense. Frightening, terrifying, repulsive sense.

Jess wasn't depressed or crazy or not in love with him any more. Jess was possessed. Sam remembers what the yellow-eyed man said, about how he could control things, and forces himself back out of the vision and—

—into Dean's arms. He blinks and says, a tear tracking down his cheek,

"She died because of me." He knows it with complete certainty. He remembers the smudge of her fingerprint on the bottle of liquor. "She drank that liquor because she was possessed by a demon. I should have realised—"

"There was no way you could have known," Dean says, one hand stroking up and down Sam's spine through his sweat-soaked scrub shirt.

"But you warned me and I didn't listen." Sam can feel his heart breaking all over again, right up until Dean kisses him. And the pain fades into a blissful nothingness. Dean smothered it, put it out like a fire with no more oxygen to burn.

"I didn't know what was going to happen, either," Dean says against Sam's mouth. "Sammy, please don't torture yourself with this. Please."

Sam meets Dean's eyes. His brother looks apologetic and worried. Sam swallows a sigh and leans closer to Dean.

"That yellow-eyed man. He's some kind of demon, I'm sure of it now. It's the only thing that makes sense. But what I don't know is why he would want my family dead. What he wants me for."

"We'll figure it out, Sammy. We will. Together."

Sam runs his hand over the blanket on the bed behind Dean, then up over one smoothly muscled shoulder, marred by a thick scar.

"I don't think it was her."

"If there's a demon gunning for you," Dean agrees, "then he'd probably mess with you however he could."

"I almost—I don't want to burn her ring. I guess I don't have to, now."

Dean tightens his hold on Sam, as if he doesn't care that Sam is wet and rank with perspiration or covered in Dean's come.

"We need to put the past to rest," Dean says into Sam's hair. He kisses the side of Sam's neck.

Sam pulls out of Dean's arms, tilts Dean's chin so that Dean's eyes match up with his exactly.

"That means going back to the beginning," he says. "Back to Palo Alto. To Jess's grave."

"Then we'll go back," Dean assures him. "C'mon, baby brother, let's go take a shower. I squoosh when I move."

"So you really don't think it was Jess?" Sam has to be sure, he can't just go on thinking—thinking that there's even the slightest chance that Jess is still hanging around, attached to her ring or for love of him, whatever. It's tying him up in knots inside.

"I think if that demon thought he could get to you with manipulation, he would. Dad writes about demons and how untrustworthy they are. How they will lie and cheat and manipulate a person to get what they want. He says that they can read your fears and use them against you. So, no, I don't think it was Jess. You burned her body, right?" Dean glances over, the car cruising along easily down the endless roads that are slowly but inexorably bringing Sam back to his old life. The closer they get, the more he feels like he's going back in time. He's struck all at once by the feeling that sometimes you can run as hard and as far as you can and still wind up right back in the same place you started from: first back to Dean, and now back to Jess.

"I did," Sam concedes softly. He tries not to stare at the changing scenery and how familiar it is from when he made his trip to find Dean, but it's difficult. "I just can't... I can't believe it. All along I thought the worst thing was knowing that Jess had done something unforgivable that cost me my family—and the love of my life. Now, all I can think is how that fucking demon tormented Jess too. Possessing her, taking her body for a joyride, using her to kill her—our—kids; it must have been the worst experience of her life. And..." Sam chokes up a little, finding tears are more readily available now than they were even after he first learned the news. "And the last one."

Dean doesn't say anything, but Sam doesn't expect him to. He's not sure that anyone would know what to say, let alone Dean, who has never been good in situations dealing with emotion. He's always been crippled by his own shortcomings, too-aware that he doesn't like and is horribly uncomfortable with emotions—especially sorrow—and he's been using Sam as a crutch in those situations for as long as Sam can remember, because Sam has always been the one who knew what soothing thing to say, what platitude to use.

But now Sam is the grieving one, and Sam can't say those things to himself because he's being choked by his own sadness. Why should he expect Dean to be able to do any better? Anything Dean could say will not change the way Sam feels.

But then Dean surprises him, sort of. Reminding Sam that it's been a long time since Dean had Sam to react off of, a long time since he could lean on Sam for the comforting words he didn't know how to say.

"But this is better," Dean says after the long silence. "Now you know the love of your life didn't murder your little kids, Sammy. It's empty solace, I know, but, Sam, we can go after that son-of-a-bitch and make him pay for what he did to you, to Jess, to—" Dean stops. "You never told me your kids' names."

It's been hours and darkness is settling in for the night like an animal circling to find the best place to rest, and Sam turns to face Dean. His brother's face is in shadow, lit only by passing glimmers of yellow from the streetlamps which leave strange markers and patterns on Dean's skin.

Watching Dean, Sam realises that at some point it's begun to rain, water falling down the glass of the window beside Dean's head. It's fitting for his mood, he thinks. Fitting for the turn the conversation has taken.

"Tyler was five," Sam says, hearing his voice coming as if from a long distance. Maybe all the way from Palo Alto. "And James was two. Jess, she was pregnant with a baby girl this time. We were going to have a daughter." Sam turns away from Dean, eyes tracking the raindrops as they fall almost silently by his own head. It feels like a betrayal to look at his brother and talk about his wife, their children. It isn't even because he slept with Dean last night. No, it's because Dean is still here and they're gone, and Sam should be honouring their memory. He feels as if he's tarnishing it just to mention their names aloud.

"It's not a crime, Sammy," Dean says into the oppressive darkness of the interior of the car. "Talking about them won't hurt them, and not talking about them won't bring them back."

"It was almost time," Sam says, mind still far away. "I was—God, I was looking forward to that little girl so much." He whips his head back around to look at Dean. "Little boys are awesome, Dean, but can you just imagine? A little girl." He feels the smile on his lips and as soon as he does, it withers. The memory of where that little girl has gone is too sobering for a smile.

"What was her name going to be?" Dean asks, and Sam doesn't get the impression that Dean is humouring him. It actually sounds like Dean wants to know, even though Dean's never really shown any interest in kids.

"Melody Rose," Sam replies. "Well, that's what Jess wanted. I wanted Ella."

"Musical names," Dean says, and there's a note of humour there. Sam grins again, suddenly reminded why Dean was good in some situations that dealt with sadness and grief. Dean could always make a person laugh. Sam has never been able to do that; he's always been too strangled by the desire to fix things with words.

"I always thought if we named her Melody that you'd—" Sam trails off and Dean's eyes flick to his for a second, just as the glow from the streetlight sparks off of them, making the green clearly visible even in the dark. Dean turns his attention back to the road, but Sam knows Dean is waiting for him to finish that sentence. "That you'd tease," Sam finally allows.

"And you didn't think I'd tease you about James?" Dean asks, voice still flirting with amusement.

Sam swallows and pretends innocence. "I don't know why you would," he says.

"You named your kid after me," Dean says. Busted.

Sam bluffs anyway. "How the hell did you come up with that?" he asks, trying to sound as if he's scoffing. Sweating on the inside, more like. Not even Jess knew why he'd wanted to name their second son James so badly.

"James Dean?" his brother prompts. "You telling me you didn't think of that? Dude, I am not so old that I can't suss out your motivations for things, Sammy, and you're not too big for me to kick your ass for thinking that you could keep that from me."

"I had to," Sam says wretchedly. "I couldn't name him after you, you know? Jess didn't even know about you back then. But I wanted—God, I know, it's stupid. But I didn't think I was ever going to see you again and I just wanted some kind of reminder of the brother I—" he practically bites off his tongue. Winchesters don't say I love you, and Sam's not going to start now. Quickest way ever to get Dean to clam up and act weird, probably for weeks.

Dean, unsurprisingly, has a sixth sense for things he doesn't want to hear or acknowledge, because he doesn't ask what Sam was about to say. Sam, for his part, can feel the shell of his ears get hot because he would just as soon not say things like that to Dean, anyway.

"I need to wax the Impala soon," Dean says out-of-the-blue. Sam picks at his fingernail where it's chipped and tries not to look at Dean. The exhaustion written in furrows across Dean's face suggest they are going to stop soon for the night, take it slow back to California—and that's all right with Sam, who isn't in any hurry to return, to be reminded of the very reasons why he left.

Yet he wonders if this thing he has with Dean is something he could have had years ago. Did he walk out on this chance, in his haste to walk away from everything else his family represented?

"Are you going to do it shirtless?" Sam asks, trying to inject some lightness into what is an unbearably heavy atmosphere. He's joking, sure, but part of him wants Dean to do just that, wants to watch Dean's muscles flex in his shoulders as he works on his beloved car.

"That depends," Dean says, looking at Sam for a second. "What are you willing to do to make that happen?"

"Dean," Sam starts. His brother's attention is focused entirely on him, Sam can tell. Driving is such second-nature to Dean now that he can do it on autopilot. "Did you ever... have you ever been with..." Sam can't quite get the words around his thick and clumsy tongue, but Dean knows what he's trying to say. Somehow, Dean always knows.

"Yeah," Dean says. "And I'm not going to give you all the gory details, because trust me, some things a guy has to keep to himself."

Sam grins, relegating his children and his angst to the back of his mind again. "I don't know, Dean, I don't remember you being shy."

"Oh, for—" Dean puts his blinker on, takes the exit looming out of the darkness in front of them. Sam catches a glimpse of a Lodging sign and waits for Dean to continue. "If you must know," Dean says, "it was awkward as hell. There wasn't enough lube, he tried to make out with me when I specifically asked him not to, and Dad almost walked in on us. And man, let me tell you, Sammy, I do not think I could have explained my way out of that one."

"There was this kid in high school," Sam says thoughtfully. "Jess asked me about it once, but I didn't—"

"Sammy," Dean says, turning a corner. The dark shape of an animal darts into the underbrush. "Did you ever tell Jess the truth about anything?"

"I didn't lie about everything," Sam says. Dean closes his eyes briefly.

"That's not precisely the same thing," he points out.

Sam gestures to the little motel nestled alongside the road, half the lights in the sign burnt out. Dean pulls the Impala into the parking lot and stops the car.

"You up for some beer and bad television, Sammy?" Dean asks, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. Sam throws open his car door. He knows that look: Dean has used it on an innumerable amount of women over the years.

"Is this the type of bad television with a soundtrack of bow chicka wow-wow?" Sam asks, and Dean's lips twist in a wry grin.

Sam shakes his head and grabs his duffle out of the backseat. He knows what type of TV Dean is wont to watch, but he'd rather have Dean, just Dean, in a motel room with the silence only broken by their jagged breaths. He's not sure, but he thinks Dean probably wants the same thing.

When he looks up at Dean, who is staring off towards the motel manager's office with a wistful expression on his face, he realises that maybe Dean has been harbouring these feelings for Sam for a long time.

Just like that, all the touches and odd behaviour from when Sam was a teenager make sense—and so does the reason why Dean won't cop to liking guys.

It brings up a whole new crop of questions, however. What has Dean done, in the interest of trying to fill a desire he didn't think he could ever have?

Kissing Dean is a revelation. Sam cannot think why he ever thought this should be strange, or why he ever believed it to be something he should be ashamed of; here, now, in one of the double beds with the covers over bare shoulders and Dean's lips under his, Dean's cheek hot against his palm, Sam can think only of this, of kissing Dean until he can't kiss him any more. Making out with Dean until his lips swell painfully or until he dies, whichever, he just wants all of it, wants this to last forever.

It's not lost on him that the last love of his life was taken away, that it didn't last forever, but... Dean is warm with hard muscle underneath Sam, a totally different sensation but a welcome one. It doesn't remind him of Jess, and that makes things easier; plus Dean gives as good as he's getting, chasing Sam's mouth, bruising Sam's lips with the force of trying to wrest control from Sam.

Dean's hands tangle in his hair, pull; his brother's cock is a hot, hard line against Sam's bare thigh. Sam's not really sure he wants to take Dean tonight, but this? This kissing, sloppy making out with Dean's tongue over his lips and inside his mouth, with Dean's saliva slicking them up together, this Sam could get used to.

There's no time for words in this, just desperate slip-slide of mouths and the feel of Dean's pre-come sticking to the hair on Sam's thigh, dampening the skin. Sam's own arousal is a hungry ache settled low in his belly, radiating outward and pulsing in his cock, and he ruts against Dean, drives the length of his dick up along the groove of Dean's hip, finding the perfect place and just... there.

Dean sinks his teeth into Sam's lower lip and he arches up, rubbing his own cock against Sam, shoving and wrestling with Sam from underneath him to get into a position where he can get friction himself. He rides Sam's inner thigh, now, dick sliding in and out of Sam's legs, right at the juncture of his hip and thigh.

Sam swallows down Dean's fretful, needy noises and cants his hips, grinding his cock harder against Dean, feeling the way his own pre-come drips from the slit and dirties Dean up, makes it easier for him to move, makes everything better, sweeter, more.

Dean's made fists in Sam's hair, tangling it and yanking on it every time he gets in a particularly good thrust, and Sam knows that by the time they tire, collapse in a sweaty, satiated heap, his hair will be tousled and sweaty and the quintessential sex-hair. Somehow, he likes the thought. He can't really remember Jess ever being so rough with him, but it's such a refreshing change; Dean's mouth moves away from Sam's and he bites just under Sam's jaw, then sucks hard—hard enough to leave the blossom of his lips on Sam's skin for all to see.

Sam likes that he can be rough, too; he reaches up and grabs Dean's head, yanks it away from his jaw and angles it so he can attack Dean's lips again, so that he can bite at Dean's lower lip until it grows puffy and hot in his mouth. He likes Dean's lips so much, the taste, the feel; he loves how firm and yet supple they are, and how Dean knows just which way to use them. Just which way to use his teeth, as Dean snags the reins from Sam again and this time Dean is biting Sam's underlip, tugging it into his mouth, sucking, outlining it with his tongue.

Sam's balls are heavy between his legs, and his hand is gripping the back of Dean's neck now, pulling him up so that Sam can just ravish his mouth. He hopes that, later, when this is all over, Dean's mouth will be bruised and his lips will look like they've been thoroughly kissed.

Sam feels, with every push and pull of his hips to slide his cock along Dean's hip, his balls growing tighter, drawing up. And Dean is pressing back to, with everything he's got; Dean has one hand in Sam's hair still, almost painful, and the other is down over Sam's shoulder-blade, grasping for purchase on flexing muscle.

Dean thrusts his hips again, fitting his cock even more snugly into the crease of Sam's thigh, riding Sam for all he's worth even from beneath. Sam kisses Dean again, mashing their lips together so firmly he can feel their teeth clash, but it's all worth it—delicious and forbidden and for some reason, this is better than anything, everything—he can still remember Jess, but he can't remember what it was like to be this in lust with her any more. Cannot recall what it was like to touch her body because touching Dean's just feels so right, even though Sam knows, with every fibre of his being, just how wrong it is. Just what a sick perversion it is, yet he can't stop drinking from Dean's lips like Dean holds the secret of the universe, the elixir of life.

Almost as if Dean can save him from himself and whatever horrific plans the demon has for him. He aches with that thought, fiercely kisses Dean harder to help banish it, skims one hand down over Dean's ribs, his heaving chest as he struggles for complete breaths under the onslaught.

Sam's gonna come, any second now, gonna paint Dean's skin with his spunk, and it's going to feel like such a mix of fantastic and yet shameful, like he has no right to mess Dean up that way, but Dean doesn't seem to mind; his brother's getting louder, body moving more frantically against Sam's in counter-rhythm, and Sam suspects they're both extremely close and it's going to be a bit of a contest to see which one of them gets to come first.

Which is right about when the phone rings. It's Dean's phone, and Sam is pretty sure they're both too far gone in a haze of arousal and imminent orgasm to actually appreciate anything but release, but then Dean pants heavily and pulls away, slipping his fingers through Sam's hair and fumbling outside of the puce-coloured blanket to snatch his cell phone off the nightstand.

Sam's balls throb, even his hole is throbbing with powerful arousal, and yet Dean is actually flipping the phone open with a breathless,

"Hello?"

Sam is so hoping that there will be no speakerphone, because he's still on the verge of coming messily all over Dean's bare, beautiful skin, and that probably wouldn't go over too well with whomever is calling. Of course, that brings up thoughts of their dad, and Sam almost bites through his own lip at the sudden, all-consuming, stomach-dropping terror that he will find out about this.

And there is no way, not after how much he struggled with it, that Sam is going to give this up. If he's even capable of giving this up.

And Dean sets the phone to speaker. Sam sighs as inaudibly as possible and resigns himself to a case of blue balls as a gruff, older man's voice comes over the line.

"That you, Dean?"

"Hey, Bobby, yeah, it's me," Dean says, and shushes Sam with his fingers. Like Sam was going to say anything, anyway; he hasn't seen Bobby since he was a kid. A pretty young kid who, at the time, had no idea that someday he was going to be fucking his brother and liking it, and that it wouldn't be the sort of thing anyone would understand, but then, how could anyone understand how he felt about Dean?

Like how much he needed this, and how absolutely not being taken advantage of he was?

"Saw you called a coupla weeks back, boy," Bobby says. "Was busy, researchin' and then had a hunt in Minnesota, you know the drill. So, lemme have it. What's up? I know you got a good reason for callin', though it'd be nice once in awhile if you'd just call up and say hi."

"I talked to my dad a few weeks ago, and he said some stuff to me that, well, Sam and I didn't understand. And we were hoping you would have some explanations."

"Dunno if I can help ya, Dean, but I'll do what I can. Just so's you know that sometimes, whatever your dad won't tell ya, there's a good reason for it."

"Yeah, well, sometimes he's more of a hinder than a help," Dean says, and Sam flops over to the side, starts stroking his cock idly. Maybe he can just quietly come without anyone noticing. He steals a peek at Dean and his brother is still hard, the covers thrown back now because Sam rolled off of him, and his cock is curved sweetly to the left and angled towards his hip, stiff and with pearls of fluid still beading at the slit and trickling down. Sam is amazed that Dean can have this conversation when he's that worked up—Sam would estimate Dean was actually closer to orgasm than he was.

"Just tell me what's up, and we'll see what's what," Bobby suggests. Dean grins, and Sam can see the little red pinpricks on the skin around his mouth where Sam sucked too hard while kissing him.

"Dad was talking about some sort of 'them'," Dean explains. "He said they monitor every call and they've everywhere, and somehow, from the way he was speaking, I get the impression he didn't mean the prison guards."

"Well, I heard you took down a demon," Bobby says. "News travels about particularly nasty hunts, especially when they go bad, though when they go good, too. Thing is, Dean, you know that hunt you just come off of? Think on that. They are everywhere, Dean, and very dangerous. You be careful, boy; you and Sam both."

"We will, Bobby," Dean says. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me," Bobby says, voice rough. "Just don't get yerselves killed."

"Won't, Bobby. Good-bye."

"Bye, kid," Bobby says, and Dean tosses the phone in the vicinity of the nightstand again. It falls with a clatter to the floor.

Sam's still stroking his cock slowly, and Dean grins wolfishly and pins him to the bed.

"Now, where were we?"

In the end, Sam and Dean stay in that motel an extra night, allowing the trip back to California to take longer, because Sam isn't quite sure he's ready yet.

It also gives Sam a chance to explore this thing he has with Dean more thoroughly. After the sexual experimentation with Jess, Sam knows he likes the sensation of being filled almost as much as he enjoyed the chance to be the giver in the situation, and it means that given the chance, he wakes Dean up the next morning just after brushing his teeth with a kiss to the temple.

Dean is sweaty and musky-sleep-scented, but somehow that just fires Sam's libido even more. He drags his teeth down along Dean's stubble-encrusted jaw, feeling the way the rough edges catch on Dean's skin and enjoying every moment of it.

"Dean," he whispers, pressing hot kisses to the hollow where Dean's neck joins his shoulder as his brother slowly begins to surface from sleep. "I want—" Sam pauses just a moment, looking for the best phrasing. "I want you inside me," he settles on, even though it doesn't quite convey what he wants exactly.

Dean mumbles something and flails out with one arm, flopping over half onto his back, eyes cracking open sleepily.

"C'mon, Dean, wake up," Sam says, and kisses Dean even though it mingles the sour taste of sleep with the mint of his toothpaste. Dean flails a little bit again, but then his hand thumps heavily onto Sam's shoulder, slides down over it until he's cupping the wing of Sam's shoulder-blade, and his eyes blink open more fully when he realises Sam is naked.

"Dude," Dean says, his voice raspy from disuse. "Are you seriously horny again?"

Sam grins a little crookedly, sheepishly. "I'm still getting used to this whole thing," he says. "When I—" he stumbles a little over the words that don't want to leave his throat— "when I was with Jess, man, sometimes we did it three times a day. I mean, before the kids. But... I've gone without for so long and I'm so used to—"

Dean stops the flood of painful words with a heart-clenching kiss. He subdues Sam with his mouth and tongue, then pulls back and holds Sam's face, smiles at him, bittersweet but love shining in his eyes. "I understand, Sammy. A little surprised, because I remember you as a teenager, but then again, look at that, eventually you came into your own and behaved like a true Winchester."

Sam thwaps him across the head with a spare pillow. "If you mean I acted like a whore, I did not," he says. "I confined myself to one girl instead of thousands."

"Hey, you know what they say, a girl in every port," Dean says mischievously. Sam groans.

"That only applies if you're a sailor," Sam points out long-sufferingly. And feels a lightness grow in his chest. He didn't even know how much he missed this. How could he have thought he could live on forever without this?

"Okay, whatever the equivalent is," Dean says, and wraps his hand around the back of Sam's neck and pulls him down. He allows Sam to steal a kiss, then murmurs against his lips, their breath mingling, one sweet, one sour: "Are you sure about this? I like—" Dean stops with his mouth open almost comically. Sam pokes his brother in the nose.

"You like being on the bottom?" he finishes teasingly. "I thought your one attempt was a disaster."

"Well," Dean starts, but Sam halts him with another teasing, burning kiss.

"Don't say it's because I was so awesome," Sam says. "Because I only fucked you once, and so how could you know?"

"Well, it's like that blowjob I got when I was sixteen," Dean says. "Best blowjob I'd ever had. Couldn't move for ten minutes straight, and I needed a cigarette afterwards."

"You never smoked," Sam says incredulously.

"Well, that time I had to," Dean says as though imparting a great secret. "It would have been a travesty not to."

Sam stares. "Since when do you use words like 'travesty'?" he asks.

"Since I also read Kurt Vonnegut; I'm not a complete illiterate, Sammy," Dean says. "Now, back to the conversation at hand. How do you even know—"

"I may tell you someday," Sam says. "But for now. I'm dying here, Dean." He rocks his hips forward, his stiff cock grazing Dean's hipbone. Dean takes in a startled breath at the realisation that Sam is completely naked.

"How do you want it, Sammy?" Dean asks, and his fingers unerringly find Sam's cock and brush across his shaft. He flicks his thumb over the slit and pre-come wells out. Dean grins, kisses Sam again, deep and dirty, sucking at Sam's mouth.

Sam groans again, but for a different reason this time, and his hips stutter forward without his consent this time.

"On... on my back," Sam says breathlessly. "I wanna see your face when you fuck me."

"Such a girl," Dean says, but Sam gets his hands under him, pushes up and then rolls onto his back next to Dean on the double bed. The lube is still on the nightstand where they left it last night, and Sam watches with hooded eyes as Dean picks it up.

"Just do it," he says. "Go on, Dean, just fucking get inside me already."

"Christ, Sammy," Dean says, sounding just a little rankled. "Could you be a little more demanding?"

"I know you," Sam pants, his cock up against his belly, almost curled with want. "You'll spend forty-five minutes stretching me and I'll come and then the main course will have to wait, and I don't wanna wait."

Dean's eyebrow arches pointedly, but he flips the cap on the lube and spreads it over his dick. He slides up against Sam, his lubed dick leaving a long shining smear on Sam's belly and part of his length, and Sam spreads his legs. He reaches down and grabs Dean's cock, lines it up with his hole and rubs around the rim of muscle so that lube coats him, then carefully works Dean into the clasp of his body.

Dean's eyes are wide, as if he weren't expecting this, but he goes along with it, leaning over Sam and balancing on his elbows and allowing Sam to guide Dean's dick inside.

Dean's making stretched-out, desperate noises as Sam fits him inside. He slides his fingers down as Dean's dick disappears into him, until his hand is right at Dean's groin, fingers cupping underneath his balls. Dean takes a deep breath, as deep as he can apparently manage, and thrusts the last inch or so inside, bottoming out within Sam.

Sam feels his lungs contract and expand, but he can barely touch the oxygen over the feeling of being so full, of the warm and vibrantly alive way it feels to have another dick inside him, and not just an approximation. No offence to Jess, he thinks with those last few brain cells still firing, but it's nothing like that—it's so much better.

And then he grabs onto Dean's hips and yanks on them until Dean slides out a little. He holds his gaze steady with Dean's, and Dean's eyes go even wider as he realises what's happening: that he gets to feel the inside of Sam, but that Sam still can't help himself.

Sam allows Dean a moment to push back in, to do so without aid from Sam, and then he tightens his grip on Dean's hips—finger-shaped bruises no doubt a reality later—and pulls on Dean's body, sheathing Dean's cock within him again.

He works up a rhythm, Dean letting himself be led, and Dean's eyes fall shut as Sam takes over, arching his body up even as he pulls Dean in towards him, every last inch of Dean's cock sinking into his body, and Sam feels like he's reaching for heaven. Like if he just stretches up his fingertips a little bit higher he'll be able to reach nirvana—and he slides his hands down, cups the globes of Dean's ass, and squeezes as he fucks Dean into his body.

Dean is pliant, breathing heavy and fast, just moving with Sam to make Sam's job easier, but he doesn't try to lead, to wrest away the control, he just goes with it.

Sam's hole is throbbing around the weight and thickness of Dean's dick, and his own cock is pulsing in time with his heart, balls taut and pulling up, and he gets the best hold on Dean he can and rams Dean into him so hard that Dean is essentially riding his prostate non-stop and feels his whole body go white-hot, his eyes slamming closed until black patterns fill the inside of his lids and he screams as he goes reeling over the edge into the best orgasm he's ever had.

Distantly, he feels his body clenching around Dean, and he's lost in tidal waves of pleasure so Dean takes over, rocking in and out in tiny increments until his brother makes a noise almost as loud as Sam, strangled and sounding wrenched straight from his toes, and spasms inside Sam.

Even under the last vestiges of the pleasure that is drowning him, Sam is aware of the warm flood of Dean's come as it spurts into him, and that, too, is not something he could get from Jess.

He hooks his arm around Dean's back and drags him down, their sweat mixing, and devours Dean's mouth.

Dean is gasping between kisses, his face slick with perspiration, his lips swollen and throbbing against Sam's.

There are no words, so Sam just hangs on, rides out the rest of his orgasm even as Dean slowly withdraws.

Afterwards, after a shower and the chance for Dean to shave, they pile their stuff into the Impala and grab breakfast from some little drive-thru, Dean driving one-handed as he tries to replenish the energy he lost from jizzing inside Sam earlier that morning.

Sam is doing the same, stuffing his mouth with hash browns and a buttered biscuit, and he tries to catch the crumbs with his fingers so Dean doesn't make him vacuum out the Impala like he did once when they were kids.

The music playing in the tape deck is Metallica, but it's playing low and Dean is humming cheerfully through each mouthful of food, and somehow, Sam feels better even though he knows he's just getting closer and closer to a lot of very bad memories.

He thinks, as he watches the sun crest the horizon and rise into the sky, that maybe he burned Jess right out of his soul by letting Dean inside in the most fundamental way possible, and then he feels slightly guilty.

But he doesn't feel guilty for long, because Dean seems so carefree and happy, directing an invisible orchestra with his own half-eaten biscuit.

So Sam spends the rest of the drive concentrating on Dean and wondering if it's possible to keep his brother this happy.

After the realisation that the yellow-eyed man is, in fact, a very powerful demon who is after Sam, Dean doesn't let him out of his sight even to do what he needs to do at Jess's grave.

Dean's standing at a discreet distance, shadowed under a tree with long-hanging branches, his sawed-off up against his shoulder. Sam knows that Dean's just being his same old self, the same person who, back when Sam was young and still part of the family—before he went to college and severed ties with his father—looked on it as his personal, irrefutable duty to take care of Sam, but it's still kind of irritating. Sam gives his brother a quick nod, then gets down on one knee, stares at the beautiful pink granite headstone that reads: Winchester. Beneath it are the flat stones for Jess (Beloved wife and mother), Tyler (much-loved son), James (beloved son) and Ella (much anticipated and adored daughter). Sam can feel a tear slip from his eye and run down his face, but even now, faced with the reality of their deaths—more concrete than a vision, more impossible to ignore or avoid than the distance that had afforded him some peace—he can't cry more than that tear. He's staring down at the markers that speak louder than any words of what he's lost, but he still can't let them go. He knows, someday, that he is going to break down. But he knows just as well that when he does, Dean will be there.

Dean, who has given him a gift more precious that anything Sam can imagine: himself. Sam still doesn't really know why Dean wants him, or why Dean is willing to engage in such a perversion with him, but Sam is grateful in ways he can't express.

He thought, when his children were born, that he knew something about love.

Dean has proven to him that he still has an unfathomable amount left to learn.

"Jess," he whispers, leaning in closer. The irony that he is holding her engagement ring in his fist while on one knee in front of her grave is not lost on him. "I love you, baby, and I miss you more than I can say. But... but I can only hope you'd be happy for me. I—I wanted to return this to you."

With the trowel from the Impala's trunk, Sam turns up some of the earth in front of the granite headstone, just beneath Jess's grave marker. He makes a deep little hole—doesn't want anything to disturb these later, like lawn equipment—and drops her heart-shaped diamond into it. He follows her ring with his wedding band, then fills in the hole carefully, patting down the soil and pressing his fist to his mouth.

"I wasn't cut out to be a father," he says softly. "I wasn't meant to be a husband to anyone, babe. I knew it all along, but I didn't want to see it. I didn't want to think that this was something I couldn't have. God, Jess, I'm so sorry. Please, please forgive me."

There's nothing, though, only the sound of the wind rustling the trees, the breath of it against the back of his neck, and if it weren't so cool and smelling of fresh air, Sam might have been able to convince himself that, for just one moment, Jess was behind him, about to kiss the nape of his neck under his hair just like she always used to do.

He gets to his feet, stuffs his hands into his pockets, and takes some time to compose himself, to say a final good-bye to the children he so carelessly allowed to be murdered, to the wife he didn't protect, and this time, when he thinks about Dean standing back there with the shotgun, he thinks maybe he understands the impulse.

That maybe Dean couldn't bear the thought of losing Sam any more than Sam would've once thought he couldn't survive losing Jess.

Sam knows, way down like a thorn in his soul, that the only reason he survived losing her was because he found something in Dean, something that ran deeper than any well, hotter than blood. And then there's a breath against his neck, followed by warm lips just beneath his hairline, and Sam lifts his head, turns, cups the back of Dean's skull and draws him into a sideways kiss.

When he opens his eyes and shifts back, Dean is smiling ever so faintly.

"C'mon, little brother," Dean says. "Staying here won't bring her back, and there's a demon out there that deserves to die for what he did to you."

The Impala is parked just outside of the cemetery, and they walk back to it together, shoulders bumping every so often, a casual, unforced reminder that Dean is just by his side and probably always will be.

Dean props open the trunk and stows his shotgun, but replaces it with the pearl-handled pistol he favours, slipping that into his waistband as Sam dumps the trowel back into the morass of weapons and tools hidden beneath the false bottom.

Sam looks up and kisses Dean, fast and sweet and over too soon. They grab the trunk to close it, and just before they slam it shut, Sam says,

"We've got work to do."