Chapter 5

Sam seems weirdly stiff, sitting back at the table surrounded by all the books they pulled out when they got back from Amarillo. Dean stands at the door without announcing his presence, and he shouldn't be watching like this. Not now.

He clears his throat and walks into the room, slumps down in the chair across from Sam, pulls a book toward him, a random book, and flips it open to the middle. "Right," he says, and coughs. "Should we go check out the other rooms now? Or—"

"I did it already," Sam says, and there's snark in his voice. "While you were—"

Dean looks up, and it's a mistake, because Sam is staring at him, one eyebrow raised. Dean would blush if he had any blood left. He chokes, clears his throat again and drops his eyes back down to the book, feigning casual disinterest. "Come on, man. got to make sure everything's still working." He presses his lips together to hide the grin that threatens to spread across his face. "Everything's still working." He won't meet Sam's eyes though, because despite the logic, who's to say that it's not written all over Dean's face that he was thinking of his brother when he came all over his belly.

Sam clears his own throat. "Glad to hear it," he says, and he actually sounds pleased, in a subdued sort of way. "So there's nothing in the other rooms. Nothing we're looking for, anyway." He shifts in his chair, like he's uncomfortable. "It's not in the bunker, Dean. I'm still not convinced it even exists." He moves again, sinks down further in his seat, spreads his long legs. "Dammit."

Dean jerks his head up. "You didn't—?"

Sam shakes his head. "I didn't. I thought it would be better to get on with the search, because I know my stuff works." He gives Dean an apologetic look.

If the ground would open and swallow Dean up, he would be okay with it.

"I figured it would just go away," Sam continues. "But it hasn't."

"Mystical viagra," Dean nods. He stares down at the vintage print on the page in front of him, reads the same sentence over and over again, refusing to be distracted by the thought of his brother's hard-on. "Go take care of it, Sam. Right now."

"We need to figure out whether we're going to pursue this or move on, Dean."

"Later." Dean glances at his phone, presses the button to light the screen and check the time. "And then you might as well hit the hay. I'll keep looking. See you in the morning."

Sam closes his book and shoves it to the side, then drags himself up off his chair. Dean's eyes briefly flick up, then back down to the page, and the way his brother's pants tent out in the crotch is burned into his memory.

---

Dean stares at words that make no sense. Not when Sam's down the hall 'taking care of it'. It's not something Dean's ever given much consideration, but he's staying up tonight. The warmth of Sam's body was too much, and Dean knew it would get weird.

Because now Dean can't sit still, not for the images that flick into his mind, the lingering memory of heat, of bare skin, of someone else's sweat.

His dick gets hard again. That damn fertility statue. It's the last time Dean's touching a fake cock, like, ever again. Jerking off only helped for a short time, because now it's back and he can't think for needing to take care of his own little problem.

He can't. Not after last time. Not after Sam featured during the big ending, not after Dean stroked out the last drops onto his belly with the memory of his brother's hot breath on the back of his neck.

"Fuck everything," Dean says, and shoves away from the table. He stares down at the book, type blurring in front of his eyes as he hovers between getting up and going to his room and waiting, hoping it subsides.

Five minutes later, Dean's panting, but he's still sitting in his seat. "Just do it," he says.

"Just do what?"

Dean's head jerks up. Sam's in the doorway, and there's fresh color in his cheeks, and his hair is mussed and he won't meet Dean's eyes. "Oh crap," he says, and then he launches himself out of the chair.

His shoulder brushes against Sam's arm as he pushes past in his hurry to get out of the room. The heat and the clean smell of Sam's sweat hits him like a brick wall and he leans against his door frame before he crosses the threshold. He doesn't need to breathe, but god, he's got to catch his breath before he goes in.

"Dean?" Sam says, pressing a palm against the wall and leaning there, towering over Dean as he hangs his head and hunches over the stiff cock trapped in his jeans.

"You'd better go back and lock the door of that room after all, Sammy," Dean croaks. "I got a temporary reprieve, but it's—" He waves his hand over his crotch. "It's back with a vengeance." He lifts his head. "Am I going to be jerking off for the rest of this unlife?"

Sam frowns, and then his eyes unfocus, like he's lost to a little bit of introspection for a while. "It's got to be a coincidence, Dean." He shrugs. "I'm fine." Then he grins. "Now."

Dean grips the door handle and gives it a twist. "Give it time. It'll be back. This ain't no coincidence, because really? I'm dead. There's no way this would be happening to me if it wasn't for some mystical dick statue." Then he looks up as he pushes the door open, and he gets stuck there.

Because Sam's giving him his pity face, all scrunched up brow and pursed lips, and Dean can feel the warmth of Sam's body as he leans close. "Fuck," Dean says, and then falls through the door and pulls it closed behind him.

He leans against it and unzips his jeans, gets his hand around his cock. It's too cold, but Sam's on the other side of the door and is he imagining that he can feel his warmth through the solid wood?

"Dean?" Sam's voice is muffled but why didn't the Men of Letters soundproof the rooms for fucks sake? "Dean, are you okay?"

Dean jerks his dick, hard and fast. "Not helping, Sammy."

"Sorry," Sam says. "I'll just— Sorry."

Dull footsteps, fading, but there's still warmth through the door, and it doesn't even take as long this time, before Dean is hunching over his hand as it works his orgasm out of him.

Then he goes limp, and sinks to the floor, cock still wet in his hand. "This is messed up," he says.

---

The hot water in the bunker never runs out. Dean has proof. He's beginning to get a little pruney, though, and all over. That's probably not a good thing. Also, unattractive. Not that things can get much worse in that regard. He's seen himself in the bathroom mirror too many times over the last few hours to have any misconceptions as of the current state of his appearance.

Hot showers not really an efficient way of staying warm, after all. But he tried. He really tried.

At least his erection hasn't made a reappearance. At least he's not cursed to be eternally hard as well as dead—or at least for the duration of his remaining entire-lack-of-life.

But that calls into question the cause of his second 'rise', brings into focus the events that preceded it.

It's got to be something to do with being dead. With being a ghost trapped inside his own corpse. If he dared share this with a shrink, there'd be assumptions made about the fucked up way the two of them were raised, about the times they've each gone to extremes to avoid having to go on without the other.

Lack of sleep can't be good for a person. It leads to thinking, and there's nothing worse. How do ghosts do it? How did Sam do it, when he was soulless? Is Dean soulless? Is that the problem? Is there some kind of moral compass that he's missing?

Dean bolts up from the bed, limbs stiff and cold, but he stumbles out the door and down the hall.

He bangs on Sam's door. Shouts through the wood. "There's something wrong with me, Sammy."

Sam's feet slide across the floor, and the door swings open. Sam is wearing his sleepy expression. His hair is a mess and there's moisture at the corner of his lips that might be drool. "Dean? What the hell—"

"You brought me back wrong, Sam." Dean grabs at him, presses his palm to Sam's chest, digs his fingers in. His fingers are pale, freckles standing out like stark blots, nails blanched bright white. The heat of Sam's body burns beneath his touch. "I'm broken. There's a bit of me in the veil, like when your soul was stuck in hell."

Sam wraps his fingers around Dean's wrist. He's alert now, wide awake. "No," he says. "You're fine. You're all here, every part." He pulls Dean into the room, into a hug, wraps him in warmth. "Jesus, Dean. You're freezing."

Dean holds onto Sam tight. "My compass got twisted, Sammy." He breathes Sam in, nose close to Sam's throat. "I want... Things. The things I think about—"

Sam pulls him down to sit on the edge of the bed, pushes him out to arms length and his eyes move over Dean's face. "Breathe, Dean." He takes shallow breaths, sucks them in, hisses air out between his teeth. "You've got to calm down."

Dean shakes his head, so far from calm he's shaking. "Help me, Sammy." He twists his fingers into the front of the t-shirt Sam wore to sleep in, pulls him close. "You've got to help me."

"Okay," Sam says, and nods. He puts his hands, one on each side of Dean's face, and it's warm, so warm. He drags his thumbs across Dean's cheekbones, stroking slowly. "You need to hold on, Dean." He sucks his lower lip into his mouth, drags his teeth across it as he releases. His eyes widen as he leans closer, and their noses almost touch. "Stay with me. Promise me."

Dean nods, but scrunches his eyes in confusion. "I'm not going anywhere."

Sam nods again. "You're losing it. You've got to stay human." He slides his hands down the sides of Dean's neck, presses down on his shoulders. "Stay with me, Dean."

Dean blinks. He lets out a breath, long and slow. It feels like he's been gulping air. "Jesus, Sam," he whispers. "I'm losing it, aren't I?"

Sam's lips curve in a painful mockery of a smile. "Little bit, yeah."

"Oh, crap," Dean says. He looks down at his hands, takes deep, even breaths. Then he laughs. "Why am I breathing, man?" He looks up into Sam's eyes. They're sad, make Sam look like a big lonely puppy. Dean shakes his head and gives Sam a wry grin. "I don't need to breathe."

Sam mimics Dean's head shake. "Keep breathing, Dean. You keep breathing for me, okay?"

The smile falls away from Dean's face. "Yeah, Sammy." He relaxes his hands, eyes falling to them once again. He splays them out over Sam's chest, it's warm and solid. He breathes in, lets it out. "You'll keep me warm?"

"Of course." Sam shifts on the bed, shoves back the blankets. He climbs in, leaves space for Dean. There's no way two grown men should fit together in a single, especially when one is as big as Sam, but they do it.

---

A hot shower might be quick, and all over, but it's not this good. Wrapped up in Sam's arms again, Sam's even, shallow, sleeping breath in his ear, against the back of his neck, Dean is warm. It's still weird. It'll never not be weird, but he's not on the edge of batshit anymore. Maybe that's why ghosts go nuts, in the end, sooner or later—there's nothing to touch, nowhere to feel like you belong.

Dean feels like he belongs here, in Sam's bed, and isn't that just the weirdest thing he never thought he'd say. Slowly, carefully, so he doesn't wake Sam, he rolls over to face his brother. He holds his breath, so there's no cold breeze on Sam's face to wake him, and he just looks.

He used to watch Sammy sleep when they were kids. Used to sneak into the room to check on him, to make sure some monster couldn't get in and hurt his baby brother, couldn't take Sammy away.

Sam's always been the most important person in the world to Dean. Even if his father had never said it outright, Dean always thought of Sam first, from that first night, the panicked flight from the house in flames. Ever since, Dean's just been trying to protect Sam.

The tide probably turned a long time ago, long years ago, and Dean never caught on. Dean's never let himself be the vulnerable one, never admitted to it, but it's all wrong.

Sam's the strong one. A sob builds in Dean's chest, but he refuses to let it out. Jesus Christ. When did his world flip over without him realizing it?

If he stared like this during the day, it would be weird. But Sam's asleep, and Dean can't sleep. He looks all he can, sees everything. Memorizes everything.

Because the grail isn't in the bunker. There's time, still, but the chances of finding a way to give Dean his life back are slim. This might be all he gets.