Dean's been driving for an hour or more. Close to an hour and a half, he reckons.

And it matters, because he's been driving too long. They've traveled too far to go back. Dean knows this road, knew he'd be driving all night before they got to the closest town, the closest place with people.

Dean pulls the Impala over to the side of the road.

"I'm sick," he says, when Sam looks over with a question in his eyes. "Sweaty. Shaky."

He knows the feeling, the one that spreads over Sam's face: horror and disbelief.

"I'm dying, Sam," Dean says. "I'm dead already.

They just wrapped up a job. Ganked the witch throwing curses around like confetti, and he was a sick fuck, too—cursing the people he didn't like with an agonizing death—and the only cure? Sex. Except none of his victims knew that, the boys only got it out of him at the end, when it was too late for all of them.

It's too late for Dean, too. Once all the victims started showing symptoms—fever, the shakes—they were all dead within an hour, and they all died screaming, doctors—if they even made it to a doctor before it was over—helpless to save them.

If it was an option, Dean wouldn't be opposed to some anonymous sex to save his own ass—hell, he'd even pay for it under the circumstances—

But they're an hour from civilization in any direction.

Dean's dead.

Sam stares at Dean in horror. Dean can see the cogs turning in his head, working out all the possibilities, every single option.

"You're wasting your time," Dean says. "There's nothing. I can't be saved."

Sam blinks. His eyes are shining. "No," he says. "There's always a way—"

"Not this time. It doesn't matter, Sammy. I was scheduled to kick it in a few months anyway."

"No," Sam repeats. "No, Dean. We still had time—"

"My clock just ran out a little early is all." Dean closes his eyes and leans his head back, and he strokes his hands over the steering wheel.

If he didn't have Sam in the car with him, Dean would drive off a cliff or something. It would be quick, and over.

"A bullet," Dean says. "I'm gonna eat a bullet. I saw how much pain they were in."

"No," Sam says again, and this time, the horror and desperation are gone from his voice, and what's left is only conviction.

Sam gets out of the car, and he opens the trunk, and Dean hears him rattle around in there for a while before he appears at the drivers door.

"Move over," Sam says, opening Dean's door.

Dean does. "What—" he says, hope flaring in him, that Sam has an answer, even though it's hopeless.

Sam grabs Dean's hand, and he drops a handful of pills into it, then screws the cap off a bottle of water and shoves that at Dean, too.

"Acetaminophen," he says. "For the fever. Should give you a few more minutes. And oxy for the pain. You're gonna need it."

"I'm not drawing it out," Dean says. "A bullet'll fix everything."

"I'm not letting you die on the side of the road. And I'm not letting you shoot yourself. Take the damn pills, Dean."

Sam turns the keys and the engine roars to life, and Sam pulls out onto the road.

Sam thinks he can get them to town, find someone to fix this. Its pointless, hopeless, but Dean swallows the pills, washes them down, because who is he to take the last ounce of hope from his baby brother?

If he's hoping to save Dean's ass, Sam should put his foot down, but he's cruising, and his eyes scan the road, like he's looking for something.

Another human being? Someone he can pay, or threaten, to take the curse off his brother?

But then he pulls off the road onto a gravel track, and god knows where they're going—a house, maybe?

There are no lights. No house, no people, just a rutted dirt road that takes them down to an overgrown river, or stream, or drain, with an ancient bridge running over it.

Sam parks the car beneath the bridge, shuts off the engine, and pops the door open, shooting out of the car like the damn thing is on fire.

He opens the trunk, slams it shut, then he pulls open the passenger door and pulls Dean out of the car.

"I know you're gonna fight me," he says, as he claps a pair of handcuffs around Dean's wrists. "But I'm begging you, Dean. Don't. Just let me do what I gotta do, okay?"

What else is Dean supposed to do? He jerks away, but too slow. He could run, but he's uncoordinated and fatigued, and a lot of it is the curse, but Sam gave him the good pills, and Dean's head is already swimming, confused, and Dean took them because he knew he'd be dead anyway soon, he didn't know Sam was going to lock him up—and for what? To stop him shooting himself?

Then Sam reaches for Dean's belt, and he gets Dean's jeans undone, and something of an idea teases at the edge of Dean's consciousness.

But no. It's too unthinkable. There's no way, no way in hell—

Sam turns Dean and shoves him up against the car, pins him with his hips as he jerks at his own belt and Dean hears the metallic sound of a zipper quickly pulled.

Dean shouts, and he cries out, and he begs Sam to stop.

"I'm so sorry," Sam says. "But I gotta do this, Dean. I'm not letting you die when there's something—even if it's awful—I can do to save you."

Dean struggles, fights, but he's high on painkillers and all he does is scratch up the roof of his car. "No, Sammy. Please, Sammy. You don't want to do this."

"You know I don't."

Dean chokes, because he can feel the warmth of Sam's bare skin—his bare cock—against his ass.

"But I can knock you out, if you prefer," Sam says.

"Don't do it, Sam," Dean begs. If he's out, he can't stop this, and he needs to stop it. "Let me die. I'd rather die than be saved, like this."

Sam slides his hand up, grabs hold of the back of Dean's head. "I'm sorry, Dean," Sam says. "I'm so fucking sorry, but I can't let you die."

And he slams Dean's forehead onto the roof of the car.

---

Dean's head throbs and there are flames licking at his skin and he hears his own voice, rising in a moan.

He's full, god, so full, and he can smell salt and sweat and moisture in the air, leaf mold and decomp, and the smell of blood, and rubber, and his own arousal.

He's hard, there are places inside him suffering, he's in hell, and he doesn't remember dying.

It's not his brother inside him. It's some demon, or the devil himself, grunting as he pushes deeper into Dean's body, over and over again.

Dean clings to hell, because it's the only thing he can accept. He'd rather be dead, raped by a demon in hell than live and be saved by his brother—

—like this.

"I'm so sorry," the devil says, and he's using Sam's voice. His fingers press bruises into Dean's hips. "I'm so sorry, Dean."

Dean chokes on his spit, lets out a desperate sob. "Stop," he says. "Let me go to hell, Sam. I'd rather go to hell."

"The worst is over," Sam says, and he keeps on going. Harder, more bruises. More fire beneath Dean's skin.

He could fight. He could try. He'll fail, because his legs are weak and his hands are cuffed and his head is spinning and he can't see straight.

But he can think, and fuck Sam, Sam's doing this to him, and he can never take it back.

"You wanted this," Dean accuses.

"I never wanted to hurt you."

"Not that," Dean says. "You wanted to fuck me. All you needed was the chance to do it, a reason to do it, an excuse."

Sam falters.

"You wanted to fuck me, Sam," Dean spits, and his body tenses in disgust. "You've always wanted to fuck me, You're sick, this is sick."

"I know," Sam says. "But I can't stop. I won't let you go. I won't let you die."

"I'm dead anyway," Dean says, gasping, panting. "I'm already dead. You're fucking a corpse, Sam. I'm damned. I'm going to hell, there's no stopping it. And you just made sure that you're gonna join me in the fire, Sammy. I hate you. I fucking hate you for doing this to me, Sam, and I'm gonna hate you till my year is up."

Sam shakes, and he sobs, but he keeps fucking Dean like his life depends on it. Harder, faster, grunting and sweating and all Dean can do is brace.

Brace, and pray he doesn't come. His cock is hard and pressed against the cold steel of the car, and normally, that wouldn't do shit, but his brother's big cock is in his ass, dragging over his prostate over and over and over again.

Sam cries out, finally, stills, finally, and his voice is wrecked, mournful and terrified, broken and desperate.

And then it's over. Sam stumbles back and leaves Dean to slide into the mud, unable to save himself with his hands cuffed.

Sam tries to pick Dean up, Dean pulls away. He'd rather drown in the muck.

Sam uncuffs him. Slowly, Dean gets to his feet, but he's unsteady, still reeling from the drugs and the blow to his head.

And the shock of it all.

He fastens his jeans. And only then does he allow himself to even look at his brother.

"Dean," Sam says, pleading with open palms, but Dean doesn't let Sam get any further. He pulls back, and he hits Sam as hard as he can.

Sam reels back, clutching his jaw, but he stays upright.

Dean doesn't. He falls into the mud again, and that's when he realizes it's raining, and he's sitting in a rivulet flowing down from the bridge, and it's swelling, rushing toward the river.

He could follow it. Throw himself in. Drown himself and wake up in hell and never have to lay eyes on his brother again.

"You're alive," Sam says, towering above Dean, looking down. "I saved your life. It was worth it."

"No," Dean says. "It wasn't."

Sam will never forget this. It wasn't worth the handful of months Dean has left and it wasn't worth killing their relationship because Dean's never going to be able to look Sam in the eye again and Sam will never be able to look at himself in the mirror again.

And it serves him fucking right. Sam's going to have a hell of a lot more years to suffer the consequences of what he's done tonight than Dean will.

---

Sam shoves Dean in the passenger seat and drives. It's more than an hour to the next town, to a motel and a warm bed and a hot shower. They travel in silence.

"I hate you," Dean hisses when the torment builds up enough it overflows, because if he doesn't speak, he'll scream. "I fucking hate you."