Chapter 4

"I'm pissed off about my knife," Dean says. "It was a damn good blade."

Wrapped in a blanket, Dean sits on Bodhi's couch. He's not sure if the sand rubbing against his skin was already on the couch or if its just what he brought in from the beach with him. His boots and his jeans and his shirts are still where he left them in a sodden pile on the porch, and if they dry overnight they'll dry encrusted with salt and sand.

"Thank you," Bodhi says. "Thank you for killing the thing that killed my friend."

"It's the job," Dean tries to say, but the words get cut off because Bodhi's leaning over and kissing him.

It's not new. It's not that different. If there's one good thing about this job it's the steady stream of grateful kisses after the monster is dead, but Dean's never had a dude lay one on him before. And yet, after that moment on the beach right before the kabagon came crawling out of the sea, he shouldn't be surprised.

And he's not sure he wants it to stop.

But he gently pushes Bodhi away. "You don't have to," he whispers, even as he can taste Bodhi on his lips, even as he can't tear his eyes away from the surfer's mouth. "It's the job. We don't—I don't do it for this."

Bodhi leans back. A slow smile spreads over his face. "Let me guess," he says. "You get a lot of grateful people throwing themselves at you after you rescue them."

Dean shrugs. It's not completely inaccurate.

Bodhi leans in again, and he brushes his lips over Dean's, and he tastes like salt, like the sea, and, even in the middle of the night, he smells like sunshine. "If you remember," he whispers, his voice gone low and rough. "I rescued you. I pulled you out of the sea, dragged you up onto the shore. I was kinda hoping you might throw yourself at me."

"Fuck," Dean says, as desire coils in his belly, as the usual dynamics of the aftermath of a job flip, and the masculine smell of the surfer, his muscular arms and legs, his broad, strong shoulders make him think things, remember things, both arousing and traumatic. "Yeah," he says, as he puts his hand on the back of Bodhi's neck and pulls him in. "You fucking did," he says. "And I'm so fucking grateful."

Dean's head spins. He's a mess up there, and he took on this job to forget, but all it's doing is sending him flashes of that night beneath the bridge. The heat inside him, the weight of his brother on his back, the smell of salt, of sweat, of leaf mold and damp soil.

Like the hunt, the knowledge that he was drowning put it all in perspective, maybe Bodhi can do that for him, too. Maybe he can wipe away what Sam did to him, replace it with another memory, one he can cling to when the hounds finally come for him, something he can remember when he's burning in hell, something to call up between flayings that will give him some small measure of comfort.

"Touch me," Dean gasps as he pulls out of the kiss. "Fuck," he says. "I want you to touch me." He shakes out of the blanket he's wrapped in, throws it off so all he's wearing is a pair of Bodhi's board shorts, tied at the waist with a shoelace. He reaches out and twists his fingers into the t-shirt the surfer is wearing. "Get it off," he says.

Bodhi leaps up from the couch and he pulls Dean up, too. And then he strips off his shirt, drops it to the floor, and he pulls Dean back in, kisses him deep, licking into Dean's mouth until Dean can't think, until he's drowning again.

Board shorts are fucking thin, and Dean can feel Bodhi's cock, hard against his own. Fuck, this is new, but thrilling. What might it feel like to have another man's cock in his hand, in his mouth, in his—

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 shakes his head to clear it. He's not having flashbacks, not now. He pushes it down, deep inside where all his trauma lives, where he hides it, even from himself. "I'm good," he says, as he registers Bodhi's hesitation. "You got a bed? Or are we gonna do it right here?"

Bodhi grins and grabs Dean by the hand and pulls him through a door.

Past a bathroom, past a room that must have belonged to Jerry—an unmade bed and a bunch of surfboards, and into another room with another unmade bed and surfboards, and there's still that same gritty feel of sand against the hardwood floor beneath Dean's bare feet.

Dean turns, and looks. He's going to do it. He's going to have sex with a man. It's not as momentous or as scary as he thought it might be, Dean loves sex, he's just never had the opportunity or the drive to have it with a man before—

Sam doesn't count.

Bodhi comes up behind him, presses his bare chest to Dean's back, kisses his neck. "I wanted this from the moment I laid eyes on you," he breathes, and then slides his hands down, over Dean's shoulders, down his bare arms, and then circles Dean's wrists with his fingers.

No, Sammy. Please, Sammy. You don't want to do this.

Dean starts to sweat, salt prickling at his temples. He forces himself to be still, to resist the twitch that would push Bodhi away.

He wants this. He wants it.

I'd rather die than be saved like this.

"I wanna fuck you, Dean," Bodhi says. "Will you let me fuck you?"

You wanted to fuck me. All you needed was the chance to do it, a reason to do it, an excuse.

Dean whines, shakes, arousal and fear all twisted up inside him until he can't tell one from the other. He can feel it, he can still feel his brother inside him, Sam's big cock stabbing at his insides, making him hard when he didn't want to be.

You're fucking a corpse, Sam.

Dean pulls away, and he makes a sound that's all frustration and all fear and all anguish, and he hides his face as he sits on the edge of Bodhi's bed. "I'm sorry," he says. "I can't. I can't do it, I'm so sorry."

The mattress dips beside him. Bodhi's warmth, like sunshine, radiates against Dean's side. "It's okay," Bodhi says, softly, so gentle. "You've never been with a dude before, have you?"

"I have," Dean says, as another flash hits him, of the ticking car beneath him, and his brother sweating, huffing, grunting on his back. "And I haven't. Not like this. Because it wasn't exactly my choice."

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.

Bodhi gasps. He reaches out, and his hands flutter over Dean' skin, like he's too afraid to touch, like Dean might spook. "No," he says, pain, anguish in his voice, like he can feel all of Dean's torment, like Dean's infected him somehow with the darkness that dwells in that deep, hidden place inside him. "I'm so sorry, Dean. I'm so fucking sorry."

I'm sorry, Dean. I'm so fucking sorry, but I can't let you die.

Dean lifts his head. He doesn't remember crying, but he knows that tears are streaking his face, because he can feel the salt, crusting, pulling on his cheeks as they dry. He shakes his head. He doesn't want to hear Bodhi saying it, because all Dean hears is his brother's voice.

I can't let you die.

"It's this job," Dean says. He reaches out and traces the freckles that cover the bridge of Bodhi's nose, scattered like the sand on his hardwood floors. "Stay in the sun, kid. You don't wanna be anywhere near this darkness. You lost your friend, but the thing that killed him is gone. Don't let it drag you down, because it's really fucking hard to crawl your way out again."

Dean will never have the chance to crawl out of the hole he's been in since his mother burned and he fled the house with baby Sam in his arms.

I can't let you die.

He's only got a few months left on this earth. The closest Dean's ever been to the kind of light Bodhi spends his life in is Sam.

I can't let you die.

Dean's going to hell because he sold his soul for his brother's life.

You're gonna join me in the fire, Sammy.

Sam damned his own soul for Dean's life. For just a few months of Dean's life.

Dean sat with his brother's corpse, made a plan, and brought Sam back from the dead.

Sam didn't have that kind of time. He panicked, and he did the only thing he could do. He did the only thing that was available to him.

If their roles had been reversed, Dean might have done the same thing.

I can't let you die.

Dean would have done the same thing.