"Here's one," Dean says, pausing as he scrolls through the last in a long list of online news websites. "Some dude died trying to bang his horse. Could be our kinda thing."

"In what way is bestiality our kind of thing, Dean?" Sam replies. He's doing the same thing as Dean, on the other side of the table, and so far he hasn't found anything.

"In the way there's a lot of other weird shit going on in this town. A Mom and her kid totally pulled a Romeo and Juliet, a teacher turned himself in for hooking up with his student, an altar boy serenaded his priest, and a 21 year old nurse married her 101 year old patient."

Sam blinks at Dean over the screen of his laptop. "I'm still not getting how any of this is—"

"The old dude," Dean says. "He's not rich. Poor as dirt. Oh, and this all happened over the last week."

Sam slams his laptop closed. "Sold," he says. "So, what are you thinking?"

Dean shrugs. "My money is on a witch casting inappropriate love spells." He closes the lid of his own laptop after scribbling a few notes on a scrap of paper, and he rises to his feet. "Get your shit, Sam. We leave in 10."

---

"Could be wishes," Sam says, when they're in the car and a couple hours into the journey. "We should check for a well."

"Could be a goddamn trickster with kinks," Dean counters. "It's a witch, Sammy."

"We don't know what we're gonna be walking into till we get there." Sam slides down in his seat and stuffs his jacket between his head and the window. "I'm gonna get some sleep," he says, and he closes his eyes.

Dean looks out into the distance, at the dark road ahead, and then he glances at his brother, taking the opportunity to watch Sam while he sleeps.

---

"The cops are run off their feet," Sam says, scrolling through the police reports on his laptop. "One guy shot and killed his best friend for sleeping with his daughter. And oh, eww. A woman killed her husband for sleeping with his own daughter. All three families are Catholic. The church could be a hotspot."

"So we hit the church," Dean says. "Time to get dressed. FBI or clergy? I vote collars."

He always feels just a little twisted when they suit up as priests. He'll never tell Sam, but he likes it more than he should.

Sam shakes his head. "The cells are full, Dean. We need to talk to those people. The ones who got hit, and the people who watched their loved ones get hit."

Dean sighs. "Suit and tie then."

---

They walk into the Police station in their FBI suits, flash their badges and get shown through to the holding cells.

They're packed. A woman is crying, there are a couple of teenagers speaking in hushed whispers through the bars, and people of varying ages, mostly men, wear hopeless expressions.

They're looking for the teacher, the guy who fell in love with one of his students and then turned himself in, but there's another prisoner in the cell with him.

"Padre," Dean says, nodding at the collared priest sitting on the cot attached to the wall.

The priest looks up, gives the Winchesters a once over, then drops his head again.

Sam and Dean turn their attention to the other guy. The teacher.

"Mark Wright?" Dean asks.

The guy nods.

"You turned yourself in," Dean says. "Can you tell us why?"

The man is young. Can't have been teaching for more than a couple of years, and he's just tossed his entire career in the toilet over a girl. A student, sure, but she's a senior. She's 18, only months away from graduating. They could have waited it out. He could have gotten away with it.

"I can't stay away from her," the guy says. "She can't stay away from me. They said they can't hold me, but I begged them to lock me up. This was the only way."

There's a young woman sitting outside in the waiting room. There was a kid out there, too. A teenage boy, maybe 15 or 16.

Dean looks over at the priest. "Same for you, huh? The kid won't leave you alone?"

The priest nods, then turns his head away, hooks his fingers into his collar and pulls it free. He drops it onto the floor at his feet.

"We need to know where you've been," Sam says. "Where you were when you first noticed these feelings. Both of you."

"We were at a bar," the teacher says. "The Lucky Brew."

"You took your student to a bar?" Dean asks.

"No," the man says. "I was there. She was there. With some guy. Older, probably some frat boy. But she shouldn't have been there. I told her she should leave, and then... I don't know what happened. But that's when it started."

"And you, Padre?" Dean says. "Meet your boy at the bar, did you?"

"Of course not," the priest says, speaking for the first time. "It happened after Sunday service. Everyone was leaving, and I suddenly felt—" He looks as though he might swallow his tongue, horrified, sick. "Later, he came to my home. I wouldn't let him in." He looks up at them, pleading with his eyes. "I never touched him, I swear."

They don't get much out of the rest of them. The teenagers—the captain of the cheerleading squad and a squirrely, bespectacled chess club-looking kid—were arrested for stealing a car, there are a few cases of public indecency, and the woman who shot her husband does nothing but sob.

The man who shot his best friend for sleeping with his daughter won't speak to them at all.

But they come out of the station with a couple of hot spots. All but a few of the witnesses first noticed a difference at the Lucky Brew, or at church.

Dean yanks at his tie, pulls it off and stuffs it through the open window of the Impala, still parked outside the station. "I'll take the bar," he says. "You can have the church."

"We'll both go," Sam says. "I doubt the church will have anything to offer us at 6pm on a Tuesday."

---

The bar is busy, and the boys have to fight their way through the crowd. Dean motions at the bartender, and Sam scans the place for something they can work with.

"You're those FBI guys," the bartender says as he serves them. "Aren't you?"

Dean shrugs. "Off duty."

"It's on the house," the guy says.

"Sweet." Dean grins and puts his wallet back in his pocket. "Thanks." He turns to Sam and hands him his beer. "We got anything?"

Sam nods toward the dance floor. "Check it out."

Two men slowdance to the saccharine love song that filters out from the jukebox against the wall. It shouldn't be remarkable, but in a small, conservative town, it is—and it's obviously not normal here, because everyone is staring, and a hush has fallen over the entire place.

Yet the two men only have eyes for each other.

"Yeah," Dean says. "I think maybe we got something."

Sam nods, and he takes his drink and wanders off—splitting up is probably wise.

There's a couple of girls on the dance floor, too, and they've got their tongues in each others mouths. They're getting a lot of attention from a group of men, for an entirely different reason.

Maybe it was the witch. Or maybe the girls are just taking advantage of the disruption to be themselves for a change.

The song that's playing finishes, and Dean hopes for something a bit more upbeat.

The same song starts over. Dean pulls a face and makes a beeline for the jukebox.

"You really like this song, huh?" he says, to the middle aged guy in dress pants and untucked business shirt who appears to be monopolizing the machine.

"It's our song," the guy says.

"Nice," Dean replies. "Gonna introduce me to your lady?"

"She's right here," the guy says, stroking the curved top of the jukebox, letting his hand slide longingly down her side. "I love her," he says. "She's so beautiful."

"Well," Dean says. "Congratulations to you both." He backs away.

He bumps into someone, and he turns. It's Sam.

"So. Did you find anything? 'Cos there's a guy over there in love with the jukebox."

"A lot," Sam says. "The girl over there in the booth? Was supposed to get married his weekend. The guy she's with? The stripper at her bachelorette party. They had the party here."

"Shit," Dean says.

"The couple at the bar who can't keep their hands off each other? She's his sister-in-law. And the woman there, on the barstool."

Dean waits for the punchline. It doesn't come. "So who's she hooking up with?"

"The barstool."

"Huh," Dean says. "She does look like she's enjoying herself."

"Yeah. It's everywhere, Dean. This is ground zero."

"It could be anyone," Dean says. "Half the town was in the bar last night. The other half were probably at church on Sunday. How are we supposed to know which asshole is our witch?"

"We cross reference," Sam says. "Get a list from the church, take it to the bar, see who was in both places. Check off the ones we know have been hit. Eventually we'll narrow it down."

"Meanwhile, people die." Dean sighs. "Suit up, Sammy. We're going to church."

---

"We need a list of your congregation," Dean says to the harried young priest. "Everyone who was present for the last two Sundays, at least."

"I've spoken to the police already," he says. "They didn't say anything about sharing—"

"The police have no idea what they're doing," Dean says. "We're not police. We're FBI, and you are required to hand over—"

"This isn't about Father Theodore," Sam interrupts. He speaks slowly, in a low, soothing voice. "There's something happening to people in this town, people are dying, lives are being destroyed. We need your help to stop it."

If they'd actually been FBI, maybe they could have compelled the guy to hand over the files, but he turns them away.

There are other ways to compel someone, of course, but even Dean draws the line at pulling a gun on a priest.

---

"Some of these couples, Sam. They're illegal, or immoral, they're twisted and fucked up in some way. Bestiality. The pedo priest. Jukebox guy. A barstool? And incest, Sam. Incest. What the fuck are we doing here? We're this witch's whole M.O."

And, fuck, he said it out loud, said that word out loud, the one that's been rattling around in his head for years. It shocks him, and he takes a step back, and anything else he was going to say dies in his throat.

Sam doesn't seem to notice, doesn't even blink.

"We can't just walk out, Dean," he says. "People are dead. People's lives are ruined. What if she's not done? More people will die. We have to stop it."

Sam's incensed, and he's radiant with it, and he's right.

"Okay," Dean says. "We'll find this bitch, and we'll waste her. It's what we do. But we gotta be careful, and we gotta find her first. So, what've we got?"

---

"There must be a special level of hell for people who break into churches," Dean whispers, fidgeting impatiently as Sam works to pick the lock of the office door.

"I didn't think you cared about stuff like that," Sam says. The lock clicks and the door swings open.

"I care about where I end up." Dean goes for the desk, starts shifting papers around, not knowing what he's even looking for. "Again. You think church break ins warrant minimum torture?"

"Doubt it." Sam's popped the lock on an ancient metal filing cabinet, and he's riffing through the files, hair hanging in his face. "Red hot pokers all day long."

It's a marvel they can joke about Hell, let alone even mention it, with what they've each been through. Sometimes it just helps. Both of them know there's no special cage for those who defile churches. They've been there.

Sometimes the only thing you can do is laugh.

"Got it," Sam says, pulling a sheet of paper out of the cabinet, slamming it closed, and heading for the door.

Dean glances back down at the desk. He should probably hide his tracks. Not make it too obvious they've been here, but he's got no idea how it was before he started fucking with it.

A leather-bound journal catches his eye. Dean grabs it, for no real reason but that if he'd had more time, he would have opened it.

He tucks it into his jacket and follows Sam out, pulling the door closed behind him.

---

They head back to the bar, Sam with the list of congregants folded and tucked into the back pocket of his jeans.

Dean spots the two guys that were slow dancing the night before, and he grabs Sam by the elbow and draws him toward the two men.

"Hey guys," Dean says. "Mind if we have a word?"

The contrast between these two men and the men in the police cells is vast. The kind of stigma they're dealing with isn't really that different, not here, but their reaction is entirely opposite.

"We've been best friends since middle school," Noel says. "Went into business together a few years after we graduated high school. We were like brothers."

"What kind of business?" Sam asks.

"Construction," Harvey says. "Anything that's been built in this town in the last 20 years, we had a hand in."

"Hello."

Sam and Dean both turn. It's the bartender, and he's holding a beer in each hand.

"Drinks for our friends from the FBI," he says, and puts the bottles on the table, then he claps Sam and Dean both on the shoulder. "On the house."

"Good man, Jackie," Harvey says.

The bartender grins and wanders away, hands waving as he greets his customers.

"He's a character," Dean says, and then turns back to the table. "You said you were like brothers." He glances at Sam, and he wonders what kind of spell or curse could change their relationship so significantly that they wouldn't be brothers any more. Dean has, for years, had feelings—buried deep, but they never ever went away—about Sam that are decidedly unbrotherly, but being Sam's brother has always been the most important thing. "What did you mean by that?"

"A couple nights ago," Noel says, and he gazes at Harvey with an emotion so palpable that Dean can feel it, he recognizes it, because he's felt it, but he's witnessed it, too. A moment from his past flashes behind his eyes.

He was in another bar. There were two men, a bartender and his patron, and they were watching some shit on TV, and they looked at each other in the exact same way.

"Everything changed," Harvey continues.

"And where were you?" Sam asks.

"Right here," Noel says. "We were right here."

---

"It's a cupid," Dean hisses, as he drags Sam out of the bar and into the night. "It's not a witch. It's a fucking cupid."

"Wait, what?" Sam grinds to a halt, stopping Dean with his hands. His open palms rest on Dean's shoulders, and his eyes flick down to where he's touching his brother, then drift back up to his face. "Like, a cherub?" He seems distracted, a question in his eyes, as though something is suddenly dawning on him. "The guys that engineered Mom and Dad so we would be born?"

"Yep." Dean pulls Sam toward the car. "Those guys, Sam. Noel and Harvey. I've seen this shit before. We gotta get out of here."

They shouldn't be here. They're the last two people who should be working this case.

Dean can feel Sam's eyes on him, all the way back to the motel, and it doesn't stop, even when they're inside.

"What?" he demands, when the intensity of Sam's gaze starts shifting things inside him, when Sam's inching closer, reaching out. "What the fuck is your problem?"

"Dean," is all Sam says.

He hits the wall, backed up against it, unable to retreat as Sam advances on him.

Sam reaches out. He cups Dan's cheek, and his thumb strokes Dean's cheekbone. "My god, Dean," he breathes. "You're so—"

Dean jerks away, twists out of Sam's reach. "He got you. That fuck got you."

Sam gazes at Dean, hurt, wistful. "Yeah," he says. "How are you so— How are you so together?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Dean's eyes scan the room, and he puts furniture between Sam and himself, like Sam's a monster they're hunting and Dean's just trying to stay alive. "Do I look remotely together right now?"

It's a fucking disaster. He's fantasized about it, about just this thing happening—but not like this.

In Dean's dreams, his imaginings, Sam would come to it on his own—he'd love Dean like Dean loves him, but it would happen naturally. Slowly, like an ember, heating the tinder it rests on, until finally it burst into a flame.

Not like this. This is a sudden explosion, and there's no way Sam can process it, no way he can be subjective.

He doesn't have the years of practice Dean has.

"It's not real," Dean says. "What you're feeling, Sammy? It's not real."

"It was real for Mom and Dad. It feels real, Dean. Like I've never really looked at you before. How did I not know how fucking beautiful you are? Dean, I lo—"

Dean vaults over the bed between them and clamps his hand over Sam's mouth. "I'm your brother, Sam. And not like those guys at the bar. Not 'we're best buddies, almost like brothers'. We're blood. Same mom, same dad. More than that. I changed your fucking diapers. Nursed you when you were sick. I fucking raised you. What you're feeling right now? It's wrong. It's not just wrong, Sam. It's sick."

Dean pulls his hand away, and Sam's face— Sam wears an expression like he's just been sentenced to death. Because he knows. The explosion did the damage, and all it leaves in its wake is choking black smoke and destruction.

"Why?" Sam asks, and his eyes well up and tears run down his cheeks. "It's me, Dean. Why is it just me? What the hell have I done that it's just me feeling like this?"

Dean doesn't know what to say. There's no undoing the effects of cupid's arrow. Dean's been alone, all these years. Fighting the way he feels about his brother for years, struggled with the unrequited desire—with love—for his brother for most of his life.

Can he condemn Sam to that? Can he let Sam think there's something wrong with him? Can he sentence him to the loneliness, the self-hatred, of knowing that your deepest, darkest desire is your own flesh and blood?

"It didn't work on me," he finally says. He's gonna save Sam from the isolation, at least. "Because I already love you." He chokes on the words. "More than I should. Because I already feel what you're feeling, Sam. You're not alone.

"But this was done to you. It's not your fault. I came to it on my own, and that's on me, so if I ever catch you beating yourself up over it, I swear to god, Sammy, I will kick your ass.

"You're gonna do what I've been doing all these years. You're gonna fight it, Sam. You bury it. We're brothers. That's the bottom line. So you bury it deep."

---

Sam hacks into the DMV. They should have done that before charging into the bar like they did and getting Sam whammied, and that's on Dean.

It's Dean's fault this happened to Sam. Each of their feelings for the other—it's all on Dean.

Dean pulls himself away to prep their weapons. He ditches the witch-killing bullets, and he lays out a couple of angel blades. He grabs the angel cuffs, too.

That, at least, is a bonus. Witches can do more damage than just hurl random love spells. They can make you choke on razor blades. They can turn you into monsters that turn on each other.

This cherub, he's done his worst. Cherubs aren't fighters, they're not soldiers. This dick might be an angel at his core, but the only real tools he has, he's already using. He's killing people with those tools, but for Sam and Dean, the damage is already done.

Dean loads his gun with the bullets made from melted down angel blades.

He's gonna take this fucker out.

---

Sam's been at the DMV records for hours, and the sun is rising. Dean's been with him for most of it, and all they've come up with is Jukebox Guy and a couple of adulterers, and it can't be them because they're the ones who've been hit.

The more tired Sam gets, the harder this is for him, and it's driving Dean to distraction.

Sam keeps looking at him, a weird mixture of awe and anguish in his expression, and Dean can't do this anymore.

Sam leans close, too fucking close, and Dean can't stop staring at Sam's lips. He's got to do something, or he's gonna break.

He shoves away from the table, his chair screeching on the linoleum, and he backs away, looking daggers at Sam because it's all he has left to work with. "What the fuck, Sam?" he blurts, anger his only option because the alternative is dragging his brother into bed. "Stop fucking smelling me."

"I wasn't—" Sam protests.

"Whatever," Dean says, and he grabs the keys. "I'm gonna get us some breakfast."

He storms out of the room. Yeah, he's angry, but not at Sam.

None of this is Sam's fault.

---

It's not until Dean's in the car that he lets the mask slip. He drops his head to the steering wheel and he fights to control his thoughts, his emotions.

It's never been this difficult before. Before, he could bury it. It was his only option, because if he'd acted on his feelings, Sam would have been horrified. He would have pushed Dean away, so there wasn't even a question when he thought about what he wanted.

Sam's not going to do that now. Dean could have what he's wanted all these years, he only needs to reach out and take it.

And he doesn't know if he's going to be able to resist.

After getting a little sleep, Dean wakes up hungry.

Sam's still out. Dean grabs the keys. Technically, he's going out for food, but he's going to use any excuse he can to leave. He's got to put as much distance as possible between himself and temptation.

He gets a horrifying glimpse of their future. One where he's always running. Always backing away. Always putting that distance between them, and it strikes him with a cold, lonely fear.

Dean can live without acting on his feelings for Sam. He's proven it.

But he can't live without his brother.

That dread builds inside him, until it verges on full on panic.

---

Sam's awake when Dean returns. He's sitting up in bed, and he's got the leather journal Dean took from the church open in his lap when he looks up.

Dean dumps the bag of burgers on the table, and he puts his hand inside, because he's starving, but also, he can't look at Sam right now, not while that fear is still fresh in his mind. "Is it juicy?" he asks. "Father Theo's Dear Diary mention his altar boy?" He risks a glance at his brother. "Is that really what you want to be reading?" He stuffs the burger into his mouth, takes a bite large enough to discourage himself from saying anything more.

Sam doesn't look up from the book. "It's his sermons," he says. "Mostly." He flicks between the pages, turning one, then turning it back to read the previous page again. "He kept notes. Who turned up, who didn't, people he wanted to check in on, stuff like that."

"And?" Dean speaks through a mouthful of burger, and Sam shoots him an exasperated glance.

"Horse guy is mentioned."

"Before, or after?"

"Before. He hadn't turned up for a few weeks. He was gonna get someone to look in."

"Well, keep reading. Might be something useful." Dean grabs the bag off the table and tosses it at Sam. "Eat."

---

This time, Dean's the one searching up names in the DMV database. He's not seen a single picture he recognizes, though they're all blurring together at this point.

If he knew he'd be doing this, he would have used it as an excuse to spend more time in the bar.

"Huh," Sam says, out of the blue. He hasn't made a peep in a while, and Dean tries to convince himself that he'd forgotten Sam was there.

It's bullshit, and Dean knows it.

Sam showered, and Dean couldn't stop himself from thinking about his brother under the hot water.

Sam got dressed, and Dean carefully averted his eyes.

Afterward, Sam opened Theo's notebook again.

Dean didn't think Sam would find anything of use there, still doesn't, so when Sam speaks, Dean doesn't move, doesn't react.

"Hey, Dean," Sam says, a little louder this time.

"What?" Dean makes another query to the database. He tells himself he's got to double check Sam's work, but it's just another excuse. If he looks at Sam, he'll break.

He still hasn't seen a single photo of anyone he remembers from the congregants list.

"He's talking about some guy called Jackie in here."

That names twigs at Dean's memory, and he glances back through the list, and there's no Jackie there. "Hang on. Isn't that what Harvey called the bartender?"

"I knew I'd heard it." Sam flips between pages again. "Recovering alcoholic, never been to church before, started attending a few weeks back. Wanted to help out."

Dean remembers the guy. He remembers the free drinks. And, somehow knowing what Sam is going to say next, he remembers the way he touched both Sam and Dean on the shoulders when he brought them free beer.

"Theo sent him out to see after Horse Guy," Sam says.

"He's our guy." Dean shuts the lid of the laptop. He jumps up from the table, and he climbs onto the bed. No matter what, he's still got the ability to stow his shit to get the job done. He yanks the book out of Sam's hands to see for himself.

"It's the bartender," Sam says. "First damn guy we spoke to in the place, and he's the cherub."

"We've got him," Dean says. He gets up, he checks the magazine of his gun, slides the weapon into the back of his jeans. He grabs the keys, and he's about to shrug on his jacket when Sam clears his throat.

"What?" Dean asks.

"Bar's open, Dean," Sam says. "We can't kill cupid with an audience."

"Goddammit." Dean's twitchy. Killing the bad guy isn't going to fix anything between Dean and his brother, but Dean wants payback, at least. And a distraction. "Okay. We go after closing."

Sam nods, and he gets up, and he closes the space between them. With Sam's stride, it's no more than half a step, and he leans in close, close enough that the scent of him, of soap and toothpaste and whatever crap he puts in his hair, washes over Dean and distracts him.

Sam pulls the gun out of the back of Dean's waistband.

He crosses into Dean's personal space to do it. He breaks open Dean's personal bubble, and that act, it holds so much more meaning now.

Dean's supposed to retreat. He doesn't. Sam stands so close Dean can feel the warmth of his body. All Dean's senses are alert, and yet, the thing that tells him to flee, that instinct, is dulled.

Sam is safe. That's not a revelation. It's not new, but the simple fact that Sam is close enough that Dean can touch him, taste him, for the first time ever—it's not a danger. Dean can risk temptation.

Sam places the gun, carefully, on the bed, but he doesn't move out of Dean's space.

He leans closer.

So close that Dean can feel Sam's breath on his face.

So close Dean can see the imperceptible changes in the dilation of Sam's pupils.

So close that Dean can see it in Sam's muscles when he makes the decision to act.

Sam closes the inch of space between them, and his lips press against Dean's.

Dean twitches back, eyes wide, breathing hard. He only retreats that same inch.

Sam doesn't move. His eyes are on Dean, and Dean could make this stop. He could end it, right here, right now. He could, without a word, ensure that Sam buries his feelings like Dean's been burying them half his life.

He doesn't want to.

They're both frozen. They stare, unblinking, into each others eyes.

Dean licks his lips.

Sam lets out a breath. Long and slow. He closes that inch again.

This time, Dean doesn't shrink away. This time he closes his eyes, and he parts his lips, and he sighs into his brother's mouth and pushes his body the length of Sam's.

Sam grabs Dean around the waist, and Dean wraps his arms around his brother's neck, and they spend as much time just breathing each other's breath as they do kissing. The slow pace and gentle movement belie everything Dean feels.

Dean is so fucking aroused it's embarrassing. Sam's hard against Dean's thigh, and it's as if they both are holding onto careful control. The moment either of them lets go, the dam will burst and they'll rut together like animals.

Dean doesn't want that. Not at first. Not with Sam.

Sam's worth more than that.

When they come apart, each of them gasping, adjusting themselves, Sam gazes at Dean and gives him a broad smile. "Holy shit," he says.

"Yeah," Dean whispers, because if a simple kiss—soft and slow and just barely past chaste—can do that, what's it gonna be like when they really let loose?

Dean's on the bed, killing time, scrolling local news, while Sam's at the table, his laptop open in front of him.

Dean has no idea what Sam's doing. Could be looking at porn for all Dean knows.

He actually could be, if the way Sam keeps looking at him is any indication. He doesn't even try to hide it, just keeps glancing up over the top of the screen.

He's not just looking at Dean's face, either. His eyes are everywhere, traveling the length of Dean's body, sometimes Dean can even feel Sam's eyes focused directly at his crotch.

He feels...self-conscious, yeah. How could he not? Objectified? Sure.

Most of all, he feels a kind of power.

It's a power he doesn't deserve. It's something that was handed to him. Dean didn't make Sam want him. He didn't earn it.

Exercising that power would be unethical. Dean isn't ethical. Even where it concerns his brother. No one—not even Sam—would expect Dean to do the right thing here.

That vision of the future keeps coming back. A future without Sam in his life, because he was trying to do 'the right thing'. From that angle, the unethical thing is looking like the better response.

The temptation proves too much for Dean to resist.

The next time he feels Sam's eyes on him he looks up, stares at his brother from beneath his eyelashes, holds Sam's gaze until he watches Sam's breath hitch.

Dean drags his tongue over his lower lip. He shifts his hips.

It's not totally contrived. Dean's hard again, and he pulls at his jeans to give his dick more room.

But it is, all, every action, an invitation. The ball is in Sam's court now, and Dean looks back down at his phone.

The screen has gone dark, and Dean doesn't bother waking it.

Sam moves, and Dean drops his phone.

Sam crawls up from the end of the bed, up and over Dean's body.

"It was either come over here," Sam says as he hovers above Dean. "Or go jerk off in the shower."

Dean imagines Sam's hand moving over his cock, hot water and steam and Sam's head thrown back.

Dean flicks his eyes down. They're teetering, together, on the edge of a cliff. Poised and ready to throw themselves over the line Dean laid down for them.

He could still stop this. He could still do the right thing.

Or he could do the wrong thing. And they could both have what they want.

"Fuck it," he says, suddenly breathless. "Kiss me. Fucking kiss me already, Sam."

Sam huffs out a rough breath. He lifts his hand and cups Dean's cheek and traces Dean's lower lip with his thumb.

A sound punches out of Dean's chest. A fist clamps around his heart, the feeling so sweet, and so broken, and too much to bear. Dean opens his mouth, and Sam's thumb slips between his lips, and Dean closes his eyes and scrapes his teeth over it, touches his tongue to it, then sucks it into his mouth.

"Fuck, Dean," Sam says. "Oh fuck." He pulls his thumb from between Dean's lips, and he grips Dean's face with both hands, and he kisses him, hard.

This isn't fucking chaste. Sam kisses like he wants to climb inside, his tongue filling Dean's mouth, his teeth biting, lips wet and slick and warm.

His hips come down between Dean's thighs, and he thrusts against him, against Dean's cock, both of them hard, Sam like an iron rod in his jeans, Dean aching and throbbing and if they keep at it they're gonna end up a mess. He's not having it, can't bear it, wants to strip away the layers and feel Sam against him, taste Sam's bare skin, taste his cock.

Jesus.

Dean shoves Sam away, and he gropes for Sam's dick, wants to feel it in his hand. "Show me," he says. "I wanna see your cock."

It won't be the first time. They've spent their lives in close quarters. A dropped towel, an unlocked door—

But Dean's mouth waters as Sam pulls at his belt and drops his fly and pulls out his cock, because he's never seen it like this before. Swollen and leaking, and, Jesus, Sam's dick is big. More than anything else, Dean wants Sam to pin him, face down on the mattress, and fuck him with it.

Not yet.

"Back up," Dean says. "Lie back, Sammy."

Sam grunts as he falls back onto his elbows. He stretches out his legs and Dean slots himself between his brothers thighs.

"Fuck," Sam says, as Dean closes his fist around his brothers cock. Dean lifts his eyes to lock with Sam's as he lowers his head to lick the pooling precome away, and Sam makes a choking sound.

"Dean," he moans. "Oh Jesus, Dean, uh—"

Dean slides his mouth down over his brothers cock. The heady flavor of Sam's cock spreads over his tongue, and he moans, grinding down against the mattress to seek just a little relief for his aching dick.

Dean pulls off, and he stares up at his brother. "Fuck, Sammy." He sucks Sam's cock back into his mouth, and he doesn't stop until it hits the back of his throat.

There's no way he's gonna get the entire length of Sam's dick into his mouth, so he covers the remainder with his fist and focuses on kissing his own thumb and forefinger every time he sinks down.

Sam babbles like he's in shock, and Dean grabs for Sam with his free hand, links their fingers together in a way that's meant to ground, to reassure.

Sam squeezes Dean's hand and starts speaking in actual words. Mostly curses, and Dean's name, guttural grunts that coincide with a twitch of his hips and a fresh spurt of salt on the back of Dean's tongue.

Dean's jaw aches and he doesn't fucking care. He gags with how deep he's fucking his mouth onto his brothers cock. He does it again, because Sam whimpers every time Dean's throat contracts around the head of his cock.

"Gonna come," Sam grunts when Dean's really trying to work his whole throat around the head, and Dean grunts as his own cock jerks and leaks.

"Move," Sam growls, and he tries to push Dean off.

Anyone else, Dean would pull away, jerk the guy to completion. Not Sam. Fuck no. Dean wants to swallow it all down.

Sam gives one last anguished cry, and then he floods Dean's mouth, and Dean swallows as burst after burst of his brothers semen fills his mouth.

He pulls off when Sam's done, and he gets up on his knees. He looks down at his brother, debauched and spent and gasping. Dean pulls out his cock. It's not gonna take long.

No more than half a dozen strokes and Dean's coming, painting stripes over Sam's spent cock, stringy ropes on Sam's shirt and his open jeans.

Dean collapses forward onto Sam's chest and into the mess and he gasps for air. "Holy shit," he rasps. His throat is wrecked. "Holy fucking shit."

"Yeah," Sam wheezes.

---

They shower together. It's awkward, but only because fitting two grown men into the tiny cubicle is laughable. Dean takes advantage of the forced proximity to explore every inch of his brothers naked body with his hands, and certain parts of it with his mouth.

He makes Sam come all over again, like it's some kind of challenge.

There's something in Sam's eyes afterward, when they're dressed, when they're eating takeout burgers again, but he barely says a word. Finally, Dean's had enough.

"Out with it," he demands, screwing up the burger wrapper and tossing it into the brown paper bag. "I can see the goddamn cogs in your head turning. You've got something to say. Spill."

"You've done this before," Sam says.

To be honest, Dean's amazed it's taken Sam this long. "Eaten burgers? Sure. Lots of times."

"You've slept with men." Sam's dead serious, but thoughtful, maybe even curious.

Dean shrugs. "Some."

"I had no idea."

Dean sighs and gives Sam a tight smile. "It was all wrapped up in hiding that I was in love with my brother, Sam. Collateral damage. I wasn't ashamed of it. I just— I probably felt like it would give me away if I admitted it."

Sam nods, and a smile spreads over his face. "Just wondering who I have to thank," he says. "You give phenomenal head."

They slip back into the bar after closing.

The lights are up, and the place is deserted. Empty glasses and tattered napkins litter the tables. The floors are tacky with spilled drinks.

The only sound is the soft rustle of bills as money is counted, a pause while someone licks their finger, then continues counting.

The bartender is behind the register. His eyes are on his task, and he hasn't noticed them come in.

Dean clears his throat.

Jackie, they called him. He looks up, and seems genuinely surprised to see them here. "Hello, boys," he says. He's smiling, but the expression doesn't reach his eyes, and the trepidation is evident in his voice. "You know, we're closed. I'm sure I locked the door. But if it can wait just a moment I'll be done here, then we can have a drink."

"That's not why we're here." Dean pulls the angel blade from inside his jacket, and he lets his arm hang at his side. Not yet on the offensive, but making it clear exactly why they're here.

"Huh," Jackie, the bartender, says. "You're not FBI, are you."

Dean glances at Sam. Sam's wearing the same incredulous look Dean's feeling, because it's not often something supernatural hasn't heard of them, doesn't know the Winchesters by sight.

"No, asshole. We're not the feds." Dean moves his arm, testing the weight of the blade. "We're hunters. And you made my brother fall in love with me, so now I'm looking for payback."

Jackie looks from Sam, to Dean, and back again. "Just him? Huh. Only one reason it wouldn't have affected you." He comes out from behind the bar, and he approaches them, slow, his hands raised to show his palms, to show that he's unarmed.

Except his hands are his weapons.

Sam's thinking the same thing Dean is. Dean can read it in the way he shifts, can feel the tension in him, ready to move.

"You were already in love with your brother," Jackie says. "That's twisted."

"No more twisted that what you've been doing in this town. Tell me one thing," Dean demands. "Why?"

Jackie shrugs. His hands are still exposed, and he takes another step toward them. "I was doing what I was told. I came here to do a job, but I needed a vessel. I found Jackie. He was sick. He drank more than he served. He was angry, bitter. But he let me in, and I tried to take control, but he was stronger than me."

"You telling me an old drunk did all this? Started firing random arrows around town? The guy with the horse? The altar boy?"

"He didn't like that I stopped him from drinking. He didn't like that I dragged him to church. He wasn't strong enough to cast me out, but he could channel my bow."

"People died," Dean says. "All you had to do was leave. But you stayed. You're not innocent."

The cherub takes another step toward them. "You two? That was all me. I didn't need the law hanging around, you understand? I thought if you were distracted—"

"You just pissed us off." Dean shifts his blade to the other hand, reaches for the cuffs that will hold the cherub.

That second of distraction is all the angel needs. One wave of his hand and Dean's blade, the cuffs, are jerked from his grip even as he struggles to hold on. They fly across the room and hit the furniture with a clatter of silver against steel and steel against wood.

There's a third sound as Sam loses his blade as well. They're both unarmed.

"Go," Dean barks, as the cherub rushes them, but Sam moves too late, and Dean moves too slow.

The cherub gets a hold of them both, a hand on Dean's wrist, the other on Sam's shoulder as he tries to twist away. A kind of energy, a fire, burns through Dean's veins like Jackie just gave them each a mega dose.

Dean didn't feel it before. He feels this, and as he looks at Sam all he knows is an insatiable hunger. It's a need that will only be sated once they're naked and sweaty and coming in each others arms.

They both stumble back when the cherub releases them, and Sam goes to his knees, whimpering as he reaches for Dean.

Dean can't help but take Sam into his arms, there's nothing more important—

Jackie the bartender stands over them, laughing. Dean's focus shifts as his anger takes precedent over his need for Sam only because Dean needs it if he's going to protect his brother.

In one fluid motion, Dean pulls the handgun tucked into the back of his jeans and fires. A tiny perfect circle appears in the middle of Jackie's forehead, spilling white light.

Dean drops the gun, and he reaches for Sam. They kiss, open mouthed and hungry. If you could see cupid's arrows, they'd both likely be full of them, an entire fucking quiver emptied into their bodies. Dean can feel them, his whole being screaming with need for Sam, for his brother, a need stronger than anything he's ever felt in his life.

"The body," Sam moans. He's fighting, and he's right. They gotta get it out of here, they've got to get out, or they'll end up in the cells themselves.

It takes more effort than anything Dean's had to do before, but he pulls away, and he turns his attention to the body on the floor.

There's a pair of stubby, stunted wings burned into the hardwood behind it.

They get the body into the trunk of the car, and they immediately head out of town.

It's a fucking miracle they don't crash, because Sam plasters himself to Dean. He pulls at Dean's clothes and licks and sucks and bites at any bit of bare flesh he can reach.

Finally, Sam gets Dean's jeans open and lowers his head, and Dean pulls over onto the side of the road. Road head is fucking fantastic, but there's no way they won't end up wrapped around a pole the way Dean's feeling right now.

They bury the bartender right there on the side of the road, then continue on to the next town with a motel.

"Got us the honeymoon suite." Dean unlocks the door and damn near falls through with Sam attached to him from behind. "Goddammit, Sammy. Have a little class."

Sam huffs out a laugh and yanks the bag out of Dean's hand, dropping it and shoving Dean toward the bed.

"Hang on." Dean twists out of Sam's grip. "Gonna need that." He unzips his bag, reaches in, all the way to the bottom. He passes Sam lube and a box of condoms.

Sam stares at the items in his hands. "Holy shit," he breathes.

"This isn't what you want? Just say the word. I mean, you tried to fuck me on the side of the goddamn road. If this isn't how you want it—"

"I do," Sam says. "I just— I have no idea what I'm doing—"

"I got you." Dean takes the things from Sam and he throws them on the bed. "I got this covered." He reaches up, and he pulls Sam into a kiss, and it's ridiculous how good this feels, how right. All his sense of wrong as it relates to his physical need for Sam is just gone.

Dean pulls away. He starts stripping.

Sam watches, his mouth hanging open.

Dean stands before his brother, naked, hard, and he reaches out.

"I wanna see you." Dean slowly peels away the clothing covering his brothers body. "I want to see all of you, touch all of you. I want to make you come," he breathes. "When you're inside me."

Sam moans. The sound he makes is desperate, helpless.

Overwhelmed.

It's too new, for Sam. He's been flayed raw by what the cherub did to them, and it's so much worse for Sam because it's new.

Dean's prepared to hole up here for as long as it takes. He doesn't know if they will ever get this out of their system, but he knows what Sam needs right now, and he's damn well going to give it to him.

Dean pushes his naked brother back towards the bed. "Sit," he says. Dean arranges the pillows between the headboard and Sam's back, holds him there as Sam reaches for him. "Stay," Dean commands.

He could just as easily climb on top of Sam and grind until he comes, but after Dean came in his mouth on the side of the road, Sam grabbed Dean's legs, pulled him flat on the front seat, tried to take off his jeans. There was a kind of madness about it, and he rasped "I gotta fuck you," past his wreaked throat, "I gotta fuck you, Dean."

Dean put a stop to it. He wasn't getting fucked by his brother for the first time like that, out in the open, dry and bare. Not like that.

He throws his leg over Sam's thighs, and he wraps his hand around Sam's cock. It's leaking a steady stream of precome down the length. Dean uses it to jack his brothers cock, long firm strokes that get Sam moaning again and thrusting up into Dean's hand.

Dean can't resist the urge to slide his own cock up against Sam's, wrapping his fist around the both of them and rocking his hips, fucking his cock through his fingers.

Sam starts panting, breathing hard, and he grabs Dean by the ass, guiding him. Sam's fingers slip into the cleft, searching.

"Wanna fuck me?" Dean pants against his brothers lips between kisses, hot, biting, wet kisses. "Wanna get inside me?"

Sam grunts and his finger finds Dean's hole, rubs over it, then presses inside on sweat alone.

Dean gasps and his hips jerk as he fucks his fist, his brothers cock, fucks back onto Sam's finger. "I want you in me," he breathes into Sam's ear. "I want your cock inside me. Wanted it for so long, Sammy. I wanna ride that big cock, fuck."

"Do it," Sam hisses. "Jesus, Dean. Just do it." He pulls his finger free and grabs Dean by the hips, lifting him, manhandling him into position.

Dean dumps out the whole box of condoms, grabs one as the rest scatter to the floor.

Sam breathes hard as Dean rolls the condom onto his cock, and his hips jerk up into Dean's hand as Dean spreads lube over the length.

"Let me do this," he instructs his brother, as he rises on his knees, positioning Sam's cock, lining him up.

Dean's got one hand on Sam's shoulder, the other on Sam's cock. He bears down, his body swaying as the pressure distracts him.

Sam grabs him by the waist, steadying him. "I got you," he murmurs, looking into Dean's eyes.

Dean leans forward, kissing his brother gratefully. He slowly sinks down, impaling himself, inch by inch, onto Sam's cock.

He's so fucking full. Dean can't think of anything else.

There's a keening sound echoing in his ears, and he realizes it's coming from him. Sam's hands are pressing bruises into Dean's flesh.

"Dean," Sam chokes. "Fuck, Dean."

Dean pants against Sam's cheek, and he rocks his hips, and Sam's cock shifts inside him. All of Dean's nerve endings are on fire, the pressure inside him so intense it's all he can think about.

Sam moans and his hips jerk, fucking his cock deeper into Dean's body, and Dean holds tight to Sam's shoulders, and he meets Sam in the middle, rolling his hips, grinding down on his brother's cock.

The sounds they make blend together, and the room is a symphony of grunts and moans, feral, primitive, and Dean wonders if it'll always be like this between them.

If what the cherub did to them in his final moments will follow them to the end of their days. If either of them will ever be able to hide this. If they'll ever be able to conceal the way they feel about each other from the outside world, from the people who know them.

Some of those relationships may break down because of it.

No matter what, they'll have each other. Nothing, now, can tear them apart. Only death.

"Dean." Sam's voice is urgent, warning. His mouth hangs open and he breathes hard and his pupils are huge, almost eclipsing the iris.

Dean reaches for his cock, wet and dripping with precome, and he rides Sam's cock, rising up on his knees, falling, until Sam stiffens beneath him, and Dean can feel his brother flexing, jerking, coming inside him.

Dean strips his cock, a handful of strokes and he's painting Sam's chest with sticky ropes of come.

---

They've had more sex during the past week than Dean's probably had in the last year. Hopefully they've got the worst of it out of their systems.

He can at least feel confident that Sam's not going to hump his leg in public, and he's pretty sure they can hunt.

They found a haunting. Should be a cakewalk. Salt. Burn. Book a room and fuck their brains out.

Rinse and repeat.

They haven't figured out yet what they're going to do about what people think. They could be open about it with those who know them best. The cherub did this. It's not their fault.

Some of them will understand. Some won't. There's no way to know which will be which. It's a problem for another day.

Right now, all Dean cares about is the fact he's with Sam. The man he loves—and who loves him—more than life itself is beside him in the front seat of the Impala and there's a highway stretched out in front of them. The sun is inching down below the horizon, and when it really comes down to it, not a whole lot has changed.