Chapter 6

Life goes on, such as it is. They drive, and they hunt, and Dean's clock ticks down.

Sam keeps his distance. He doesn't touch Dean unless he has to. He gets up and moves if even Dean gets too close.

And at first, that's good. But as time goes by Dean starts to feel isolated. Starved for something physical.

And he could pick up a girl in any one of the bars along their path. But, like the girl in the bar on the way to California, Dean's not interested.

He thinks of Bodhi a lot. The scent of salt and sand and sunshine. Zen and gentle as he touched Dean, kissed him. And he looks at Sam and sees that same calm, that same solidity, and yet Sam was the one who knocked him out and—

They come up against an acheri. It comes up behind Dean, and he panics, and it slices him across the shoulders with its long, sharp claws.

They come out of the hunt okay, but Dean needs stitches. Sam talks about taking him to the hospital, but there are too many questions at the hospital, too many forms to fill out, too many fake identities to deal with, and they have to be on the road and out of town because too many civilians have seen their faces in connection with that strange, parentless child that turned up right when people started getting murdered, torn apart, and now that strange, parentless child is nowhere to be seen.

"Just get it done," Dean says, as he hands Sam the sewing kit and a bottle of cheap whiskey. "I got my antibiotics." He shakes the bottle of pills he dug out of the bottom of his duffel and sits himself on the edge of the bed he's been sleeping in. The one closest to the door.

He used to take that bed so he was between Sam and danger, then it became the bed he took because it was closer to escape.

He can't decide whether he's past that yet, whether he takes it out of habit or if he still needs the escape route.

This will tell him. "Just sew me up, Sammy. And do it quick. You know we have to get the fuck out of town."

Dean takes deep, calming breaths. In, slow. Out, slow. He twitches when Sam touches him, and sighs when Sam flinches away. "I'm good," Dean says. "I'm okay. Just get it done."

Dean grabs the bottle and drinks when Sam's not using it to clean the wound. He keeps drinking to a point where he doesn't twitch away when Sam holds him by the shoulder to keep Dean still as he pulls the needle through Dean's flesh. He drinks to a point where it's clear that Sam's going to be the one driving when they leave.

And he's okay. He closes his eyes and remembers Bodhi behind him. Salt and sand and sunshine. But he can smell Sam. Post-hunt sweat and blood and gunpowder. And he feels oddly safe. He shouldn't, but he does.

---

They drive, and they hunt, and Dean's clock ticks down. Sam keeps his promise. He stopped looking for a loophole, for an out for Dean's deal.

Dean starts sleeping in the motel bed further from the door. He starts rolling away from Sam at night, and he sleeps fine. He starts seeking out the kind of contact from his brother they had before—the shoulder bump, the leaning in when they're doing research.

And he finds himself seeking more than that. Leaning in to inhale the smell of Sam, the smell of home. He puts himself in Sam's path, and he ignores the surprise and hesitance that Sam's body language puts out when he does it.

"Come here," he says to his brother, one day when they're trying to figure out what the hell kind of monster has been disappearing people, only to return them a few days later with no memory of where they've been, but with PTSD like they've seen combat.

Without thinking, when Sam doesn't move fast enough to see what Dean's looking at on the laptop over his shoulder, Dean turns around and grabs hold of the front of his brother's shirt, and drags him to stand behind where Dean is sitting at the table.

On the screen is a website about alien abduction. It's not aliens, it's never aliens, it's always some kind of monster, but there are cases here that echo the kind of thing they're dealing with.

Dean should be using his finger to point out the paragraph he called Sam over to see, but the case, the alien website, gets suddenly pushed out of his mind as he realizes what he's done. Sam stands behind him, so close Dean can feel the warmth of his brother's body against his back. He leans back in the chair and looks up at his brother, and it hurts when he's met by Sam's sad, scared eyes.

Dean reaches behind him, and he puts his hand on Sam's thigh. It's okay, he wants to say, but there's something stuck in his throat and he can't speak. So he just squeezes Sam's thigh and gives him a smile; soft, gentle, slow.

And then he shifts his attention back to the alien abduction website. "Obviously it's not aliens," he says. "But look at this—"

---

They drive, and they hunt, and Dean's clock ticks down.

They just got done with a haunting. It was the kind of job they can do with their eyes closed. Find the grave, burn the bones. They were called here, to an historic hotel in Maine, and the owner put them up and everything. They each have their own room, linked by a door between, and as much room service and booze as they want, and best of all, they don't have to tear out of town as soon as the job is done.

The owner of the hotel is so grateful that he said Sam and Dean can stay as long as they want.

Dean actually feels almost happy. Almost content. Of course there's the looming dread of hellhounds in his future, and he can see that same dread in his brother's eyes, but all things considered, things are pretty good.

The whole separate rooms thing is messing with Dean's head, though.

He should be happy to have his own space for a change. But it just feels weird. He deals with it, until he can't deal with it any more, and the second night after they sent the ghost to hell he knocks on the door between their rooms at about midnight, carrying a bottle of the best whiskey the hotel has to offer in his hand.

And then he opens the door and slips through. Sam's sitting on the bed, his laptop open in front of him. Probably looking for another job.

Dean makes a beeline for the glasses sitting upside down on a tray, grabs them, and then pulls a chair up beside the queen sized bed identical to the one next door.

"I can't sleep," Dean says, as he waits for Sam to set the laptop aside and then hands him a glass. "Thought I might as well get drunk."

He pours a generous measure into each glass and then clinks his own against his brother's. "To a cushy job, if only there were more like this one."

"Cheers," Sam says, and drinks, but he doesn't take his eyes off of Dean.

There's always caution in Sam's eyes these days. Caution, and fear, and dread. Dean doesn't have a lot of time left.

Dean has that same feeling of dread, a darkness that swirls in his core. But there's also a drive to act. A deep, instinctive urge that he's got to wring as much as he can from life before it ends. An urge to heal things with his brother.

And more.

Dean watches Sam as he drinks, as he licks away the bead of alcohol that hangs on his lips. A not unfamiliar heat spreads over his skin.

"Shove over," Dean says, and he climbs onto the bed beside his brother. He wedges the bottle between his thighs, and he leans against Sam's shoulder. He looks at Sam until Sam looks back at him, and tension hangs between them like it did on the beach between Dean and the surfer, and it's fucking delicious, so delicious Dean doesn't want it to ever end.

The tension is stronger here. Because they're brothers. Because of what happened that night under the bridge. Because in just a few weeks, Dean will be dead. It grows and grows until Dean can't stand it anymore, and he leans in, lifts his chin, and he presses his mouth to Sam's.

Sam whimpers, and he breathes hard, and Dean can feel him shaking. And then there are tears running over his cheeks, and he opens his mouth on a sob, and Dean opens his mouth, too and he moans as his stomach flips and a pulse of arousal flows through him.

They're kissing. Kind of. Dean's moaning into Sam's mouth, and Sam's just kind of sobbing. Dean licks at Sam's lips and he tastes like salt. And then Sam moans and he puts his hand, still holding a glass of whiskey, on the back of Dean's neck and then they're really kissing, Sam dipping his tongue into Dean's mouth, the glass knocking against the back of Dean's head as Sam pulls him in.

Dean's so fucking hard, and he clenches his thighs tight around the bottle and whiskey spills, sticky, over Dean's fingers as he struggles to hold his glass upright.

He pushes Sam away. Throws the contents of his glass down his throat. Takes Sam's glass from him, and the bottle, and puts them on the cabinet next to the bed.

"You okay?" he says, and it's almost a whisper. He puts his hand on the back of Sam's neck, threads his fingers through Sam's hair.

Sam looks stunned. Tear tracks stain his face. "Are you?"

Dean's not having flashbacks. Oh, he remembers. He remembers the rain and the mud. He remembers the ticking of the engine as it cooled and his jeans around his thighs and the weight of his brother inside him.

He's got no romantic notions of that night, and yet, he remembers his cock betraying him, he remembers being hard against the steel body of the Impala because Sam was inside him. Oh, it was because Sam was battering his prostate at the time, there was pleasure with the pain, and that night was terrible, horrific, but there have been a lot of horrific moments in their lives, and Dean and Sam both have done horrific things to each other in the name of love.

"I love you," Dean says, as he looks up into Sam's wide, startled eyes. "And I want you." He looks down Sam's body, stops when his eyes reach Sam's cock, tenting his loose-fitting jeans.

Dean bites his lip and then throws his leg over his brother so he's straddling Sam's thighs. He settles so their cocks are pressing together through layers of rough denim. He leans forward and drags his lips over Sam's. Not kissing. Just breathing. "I want you inside me," he whispers, slowly, ever so slowly rocking against his brother. His heart starts to beat erratically, too fast. "Not behind me, Sam. I— I can't. But I do want you to— I want—" He starts to pant, to gasp, and he rubs himself harder against Sam's cock. "I want you in me. I want—"

Sam takes hold of Dean's hips, and he kisses Dean, cutting off his words. The layers of denim are a hindrance, the clanking of their belt buckles as they knock together a taunt, so Dean tears at their belts, at their flies, and he breathes noisily through his nose as Sam steals his breath and they rut together, moaning, grunting, gasping into each other's mouths until they come together, spilling over each other's bellies in a violent outpouring of love and lust and fear and desperation. Life goes on, such as it is. They drive, and they hunt, and Dean's clock ticks down.

Sam keeps his distance. He doesn't touch Dean unless he has to. He gets up and moves if even Dean gets too close.

And at first, that's good. But as time goes by Dean starts to feel isolated. Starved for something physical.

And he could pick up a girl in any one of the bars along their path. But, like the girl in the bar on the way to California, Dean's not interested.

He thinks of Bodhi a lot. The scent of salt and sand and sunshine. Zen and gentle as he touched Dean, kissed him. And he looks at Sam and sees that same calm, that same solidity, and yet Sam was the one who knocked him out and—

They come up against an acheri. It comes up behind Dean, and he panics, and it slices him across the shoulders with its long, sharp claws.

They come out of the hunt okay, but Dean needs stitches. Sam talks about taking him to the hospital, but there are too many questions at the hospital, too many forms to fill out, too many fake identities to deal with, and they have to be on the road and out of town because too many civilians have seen their faces in connection with that strange, parentless child that turned up right when people started getting murdered, torn apart, and now that strange, parentless child is nowhere to be seen.

"Just get it done," Dean says, as he hands Sam the sewing kit and a bottle of cheap whiskey. "I got my antibiotics." He shakes the bottle of pills he dug out of the bottom of his duffel and sits himself on the edge of the bed he's been sleeping in. The one closest to the door.

He used to take that bed so he was between Sam and danger, then it became the bed he took because it was closer to escape.

He can't decide whether he's past that yet, whether he takes it out of habit or if he still needs the escape route.

This will tell him. "Just sew me up, Sammy. And do it quick. You know we have to get the fuck out of town."

Dean takes deep, calming breaths. In, slow. Out, slow. He twitches when Sam touches him, and sighs when Sam flinches away. "I'm good," Dean says. "I'm okay. Just get it done."

Dean grabs the bottle and drinks when Sam's not using it to clean the wound. He keeps drinking to a point where he doesn't twitch away when Sam holds him by the shoulder to keep Dean still as he pulls the needle through Dean's flesh. He drinks to a point where it's clear that Sam's going to be the one driving when they leave.

And he's okay. He closes his eyes and remembers Bodhi behind him. Salt and sand and sunshine. But he can smell Sam. Post-hunt sweat and blood and gunpowder. And he feels oddly safe. He shouldn't, but he does.

---

They drive, and they hunt, and Dean's clock ticks down. Sam keeps his promise. He stopped looking for a loophole, for an out for Dean's deal.

Dean starts sleeping in the motel bed further from the door. He starts rolling away from Sam at night, and he sleeps fine. He starts seeking out the kind of contact from his brother they had before—the shoulder bump, the leaning in when they're doing research.

And he finds himself seeking more than that. Leaning in to inhale the smell of Sam, the smell of home. He puts himself in Sam's path, and he ignores the surprise and hesitance that Sam's body language puts out when he does it.

"Come here," he says to his brother, one day when they're trying to figure out what the hell kind of monster has been disappearing people, only to return them a few days later with no memory of where they've been, but with PTSD like they've seen combat.

Without thinking, when Sam doesn't move fast enough to see what Dean's looking at on the laptop over his shoulder, Dean turns around and grabs hold of the front of his brother's shirt, and drags him to stand behind where Dean is sitting at the table.

On the screen is a website about alien abduction. It's not aliens, it's never aliens, it's always some kind of monster, but there are cases here that echo the kind of thing they're dealing with.

Dean should be using his finger to point out the paragraph he called Sam over to see, but the case, the alien website, gets suddenly pushed out of his mind as he realizes what he's done. Sam stands behind him, so close Dean can feel the warmth of his brother's body against his back. He leans back in the chair and looks up at his brother, and it hurts when he's met by Sam's sad, scared eyes.

Dean reaches behind him, and he puts his hand on Sam's thigh. It's okay, he wants to say, but there's something stuck in his throat and he can't speak. So he just squeezes Sam's thigh and gives him a smile; soft, gentle, slow.

And then he shifts his attention back to the alien abduction website. "Obviously it's not aliens," he says. "But look at this—"

---

They drive, and they hunt, and Dean's clock ticks down.

They just got done with a haunting. It was the kind of job they can do with their eyes closed. Find the grave, burn the bones. They were called here, to an historic hotel in Maine, and the owner put them up and everything. They each have their own room, linked by a door between, and as much room service and booze as they want, and best of all, they don't have to tear out of town as soon as the job is done.

The owner of the hotel is so grateful that he said Sam and Dean can stay as long as they want.

Dean actually feels almost happy. Almost content. Of course there's the looming dread of hellhounds in his future, and he can see that same dread in his brother's eyes, but all things considered, things are pretty good.

The whole separate rooms thing is messing with Dean's head, though.

He should be happy to have his own space for a change. But it just feels weird. He deals with it, until he can't deal with it any more, and the second night after they sent the ghost to hell he knocks on the door between their rooms at about midnight, carrying a bottle of the best whiskey the hotel has to offer in his hand.

And then he opens the door and slips through. Sam's sitting on the bed, his laptop open in front of him. Probably looking for another job.

Dean makes a beeline for the glasses sitting upside down on a tray, grabs them, and then pulls a chair up beside the queen sized bed identical to the one next door.

"I can't sleep," Dean says, as he waits for Sam to set the laptop aside and then hands him a glass. "Thought I might as well get drunk."

He pours a generous measure into each glass and then clinks his own against his brother's. "To a cushy job, if only there were more like this one."

"Cheers," Sam says, and drinks, but he doesn't take his eyes off of Dean.

There's always caution in Sam's eyes these days. Caution, and fear, and dread. Dean doesn't have a lot of time left.

Dean has that same feeling of dread, a darkness that swirls in his core. But there's also a drive to act. A deep, instinctive urge that he's got to wring as much as he can from life before it ends. An urge to heal things with his brother.

And more.

Dean watches Sam as he drinks, as he licks away the bead of alcohol that hangs on his lips. A not unfamiliar heat spreads over his skin.

"Shove over," Dean says, and he climbs onto the bed beside his brother. He wedges the bottle between his thighs, and he leans against Sam's shoulder. He looks at Sam until Sam looks back at him, and tension hangs between them like it did on the beach between Dean and the surfer, and it's fucking delicious, so delicious Dean doesn't want it to ever end.

The tension is stronger here. Because they're brothers. Because of what happened that night under the bridge. Because in just a few weeks, Dean will be dead. It grows and grows until Dean can't stand it anymore, and he leans in, lifts his chin, and he presses his mouth to Sam's.

Sam whimpers, and he breathes hard, and Dean can feel him shaking. And then there are tears running over his cheeks, and he opens his mouth on a sob, and Dean opens his mouth, too and he moans as his stomach flips and a pulse of arousal flows through him.

They're kissing. Kind of. Dean's moaning into Sam's mouth, and Sam's just kind of sobbing. Dean licks at Sam's lips and he tastes like salt. And then Sam moans and he puts his hand, still holding a glass of whiskey, on the back of Dean's neck and then they're really kissing, Sam dipping his tongue into Dean's mouth, the glass knocking against the back of Dean's head as Sam pulls him in.

Dean's so fucking hard, and he clenches his thighs tight around the bottle and whiskey spills, sticky, over Dean's fingers as he struggles to hold his glass upright.

He pushes Sam away. Throws the contents of his glass down his throat. Takes Sam's glass from him, and the bottle, and puts them on the cabinet next to the bed.

"You okay?" he says, and it's almost a whisper. He puts his hand on the back of Sam's neck, threads his fingers through Sam's hair.

Sam looks stunned. Tear tracks stain his face. "Are you?"

Dean's not having flashbacks. Oh, he remembers. He remembers the rain and the mud. He remembers the ticking of the engine as it cooled and his jeans around his thighs and the weight of his brother inside him.

He's got no romantic notions of that night, and yet, he remembers his cock betraying him, he remembers being hard against the steel body of the Impala because Sam was inside him. Oh, it was because Sam was battering his prostate at the time, there was pleasure with the pain, and that night was terrible, horrific, but there have been a lot of horrific moments in their lives, and Dean and Sam both have done horrific things to each other in the name of love.

"I love you," Dean says, as he looks up into Sam's wide, startled eyes. "And I want you." He looks down Sam's body, stops when his eyes reach Sam's cock, tenting his loose-fitting jeans.

Dean bites his lip and then throws his leg over his brother so he's straddling Sam's thighs. He settles so their cocks are pressing together through layers of rough denim. He leans forward and drags his lips over Sam's. Not kissing. Just breathing. "I want you inside me," he whispers, slowly, ever so slowly rocking against his brother. His heart starts to beat erratically, too fast. "Not behind me, Sam. I— I can't. But I do want you to— I want—" He starts to pant, to gasp, and he rubs himself harder against Sam's cock. "I want you in me. I want—"

Sam takes hold of Dean's hips, and he kisses Dean, cutting off his words. The layers of denim are a hindrance, the clanking of their belt buckles as they knock together a taunt, so Dean tears at their belts, at their flies, and he breathes noisily through his nose as Sam steals his breath and they rut together, moaning, grunting, gasping into each other's mouths until they come together, spilling over each other's bellies in a violent outpouring of love and lust and fear and desperation.