Chapter 5

Dean rips into the bag of food they picked up on the way back to the motel. "So we got a dad who drinks before midday, and a mom who's scared of her own shadow. Not to mention a town deep in denial and a sheriff who covers up anything that might offend the delicate sensibilities of the locals."

"You think he had something to do with this?" Sam says.

Dean shrugs. "Someone knew they were knocking boots." He bites into his burger, and lets out a long, low moan of happiness. "Maybe the doc was right. Nothing sparks a scandal like incest." He puts the burger down on the table and wipes grease from his mouth with the back of his hand. "Hey, Sammy? Do we know Alex killed his brother? Do we really?"

Sam lets out a huff of laughter. "Maybe that's something we should have asked him."

"I was a little busy being scarred for life and trying not to die that day. I'm not going back, so we gotta figure it out ourselves."

"Alex killed the rest of them, though." Sam stabs at one of the tiny tomatoes in his salad with a fork, and pops it into his mouth. "We're on the same page?"

"Yup," Dean says. "All that other stuff? Romeo and Juliet, the football team on steroids, the gay kids? I have no doubt a town even this bigoted would weather that if they couldn't cover it up. But brothers in love? That's the kind of thing that sticks around for a long time. The kind of thing someone might kill to keep quiet."

---

Sam stares at the computer, his face a constant shift between focus and frustration. It becomes mesmerizing after a couple of hours and several beers. Dean lies on his bed, hands linked beneath his head, somewhere in the place between waking and sleep, and he stares at Sam.

When he pulls himself up into a sitting position without consciously telling his body to do so, he doesn't think much of it. He tries to say: "How're you doing, Sammy?" but nothing comes out.

That's when he starts to panic. "I won't hurt him," he hears himself say, as if that's supposed to be reassuring. Then, a little louder: "Hayden."

Sam looks up. "What about Hayden?"

"I'm waiting for him," Alex says.

Dean pushes at the edge of his own consciousness as his screams echo inside his mind. His eyes are on his hands as Alex turns them over, then balls them into fists. "Stop fighting me," Alex says.

Sam lurches to his feet, and his chair falls back onto the floor. "Dean?"

Alex looks up at Sam from beneath Dean's eyelashes. He shakes his head, slowly. "He's here. Inside." Dean's eyes flick around the room, searching.

"Alex?" Sam shoves past the table, crosses the room to grab Dean by the shoulders. "Let him go. How are you even here?" His eyes flick to their gear, to Dean's pack on the floor beside the bed. "Did Dean bring something? Did he bring that knife back?" Sam shakes his head. "No. He's not that stupid."

"Himself," Alex says. "And you, Sam. Hayden will come."

Dean's head hurts, as if he's got muscles in there working too hard. He wants to close his eyes, but can't. He can't block out the constant shifting of his gaze around the motel room or the sparks that set his nerves on fire. Finally, Alex stops searching, and focuses on a point in the corner. "I knew you'd come."

Hayden doesn't flicker like Alex does. When Alex glitches inside him, it sends shocks through Dean's body, up his spine, into his brain. Hayden looks almost real but for the faint transparency and the ghostly evidence of his wounds. "It's not fair," Hayden says. "Let him go, Alex."

Dean's head shakes. "I wanted to see you. You said I could see you. I still can't see you without him. I see them, though. I hear them, and they're like us."

Hayden glances at Sam. "No. They're not."

Shocks spark through Dean's body, and if they didn't make his brain fuse he might be able to take back control of his own body while Alex is glitching, but he can't. "They are," Alex says, and the way he uses Dean's voice is manic and strained. Dean's fingers twist into the blankets as his body jerks, the ghost inside him flickering. "I can feel it."

"You're wrong," Sam says, eyes flicking from Dean to the ghost in the corner and back again. "We're just brothers, we're not like you at all."

"You tell him, Sam," Dean tries to say, but something else comes out instead. "I'd eat a bullet, Sammy. If I couldn't bring you back? I'd want to die."

Sam shakes his head. "No," he says, and his voice is full of sorrow and pain. "It's not him saying that."

"It's what he feels," Alex cries, tearing at the blankets as he pulls Dean up onto his knees. He crawls to the edge of the bed, swings Dean's legs over the edge. He spreads his thighs and twists a hand into the front of Sam's shirt to pull himself up.

Sam stumbles back, and Dean goes with him, head tipped up, lips grazing Sam's as they part in shock. "Let him in," Alex says. "Tell Hayden you'll let him in. Please, Sammy."

Sam's face falls, lip quivering as Alex uses Dean's voice to plead with him. He looks back over his shoulder at Hayden.

When Hayden steps into Sam's body, shock and panic and disbelief twists Dean up into a space where it almost feels like a dream. It can't be real, but when Sam's lips come down on his mouth, a jolt shoots up his spine, different from Alex's struggle to hold on. Alex has Dean's eyes shut tight up until that moment, then they fly open and Dean drinks in the sight of Sam's face up close, a desperate, hungry look in every curve and crease.

A whimper comes from Dean's throat, and his hands slide over the front of Sam's shirt, muscle shifting beneath the fabric. Alex's excitement and desire bleeds through, heats Dean's blood until his pulse is racing, and his heart beats so hard it might burst.

Sam gasps in pain and pulls away. Alex stares through Dean's eyes as Sam pulls up his shirt, fingers moving over the bandages that cover the wounds and stitches.

Alex reaches out, one fingertip tracing the edge of a bandage where bruises spread outward from beneath. "I did that," he says, meeting Sam's eyes. "I did that to you."

"You did it to Sam," Hayden says, Sam's lips moving in unfamiliar ways as he speaks. "And you did this to Dean." Sam's fingers tug at the collar of Dean's shirt. He pulls it open to expose the scratched and grazed skin. "You tried to kill them, like you killed all those kids."

"I'm sorry." Alex buckles, arms folded over his stomach as he moans. "It hurts. I watched you die. I couldn't stop it."

Dean wants to get his hands on Alex, wants to shake him. "Who killed your brother?" he demands. "Was it you, you little punk?" No sound comes out of his mouth, but he gets an answer in the series of shocks beneath his skin as Alex clings tight to Sam and whimpers.

"Just let me have this," Alex says, and he falls to his knees.

Sam's eyes go wide and his mouth drops open. His hands fall to Dean's shoulders, and he pushes away.

Then he stills. His eyes move, focusing on nothing, as if there's some kind of conversation going on inside his head.

Alex presses Dean's cheek against the front of Sam's jeans. Sam's cock is thickening, twitching, and Alex moans. He presses Dean's mouth to it through the fabric, breathes it in.

The warmth and the smell of Sam, primal and very male, is overwhelming. The want he feels has to be coming from Alex, but Dean feels like he might die if he doesn't get more.

Sam's fingers twist into Dean's shirt and pull him up, and Dean is torn between relief and desperate disappointment. It doesn't last long, however, because then Sam's pushing him back, down onto the bed, crawling up over him, one knee spreading Dean's thighs. "Does he want it?" he hisses into Dean's ear.

"Yes," is the hurried gasp that comes out of Dean's mouth. He wants to argue, wants to tell Hayden that it doesn't matter what he wants because Sam is going to be horrified when this is all over and he's never going to look at Dean the same way again.

Then Sam's thigh presses between Dean's legs and Alex does exactly what Dean wants him to do. He arches up against it, groaning and gasping.

This could be so much worse, and so much better, but all Sam does is press him back into the mattress and grind against him. He licks and sucks at Dean's throat, kisses and bites at his lips. A deep, guttural moan rumbles out of him with each rock of his hips.

The familiar build-up of pressure starts at the base of Dean's spine, but it's mixed with short, sharp shocks that shoot up and out to the tips of his fingers and toes. He ceases to care which part of him is Dean and which is Alex, too consumed by the smell of Sam surrounding him and his desperate need to come.

Sam's lips slide from Dean's throat, and he lifts his head. Eyes wide open, gasping for air, he stares down into Dean's eyes. It's Hayden doing it, but Sam is in there, and he's unable to look away, just like Dean. The connections are more than Dean can fathom, more than he can bear, and the sob that escapes his throat might just be his own as Sam's hips grind against him and he tumbles over the edge.

Dean's spine fuses, and his fingers and toes clench up. There's a sizzling buzz beneath his skin, like he's been struck by lightning. His orgasm peaks, and his cock, trapped inside his jeans, jerks and twitches. He twists his fingers into the back of Sam's shirt, moans as the final spasms make his belly clench up.

"Sam," he says, out loud this time. "Sammy."

He collapses back against the mattress as Sam whimpers above him.

Sam slides off him a moment later, but his eyes are still locked to Dean's. Alex is gone, the focus he needed to lock himself inside Dean's body exhausted.

It's just Dean inside Dean now.

"Oh, god," he says, throwing his arm over his eyes so he doesn't have to see the accusation there.

"I'm still here," Sam says, his voice just wrong enough that Dean knows it's Hayden.

Dean drags his arm away from his eyes. He pulls himself up into a sitting position, grimacing at the warm, wet mess in his jeans. He glares at Hayden. Then he pulls back his arm and lets it fly, catching Sam on the jaw. The blow knocks Sam off the edge of the bed.

Hayden looks up from the floor, holding Sam's jaw. "What was that for?"

"Using Sam like that," Dean growls. "What gives you the right?"

Hayden slowly pulls Sam to his feet. "He wanted me to," he spits.

Dean's heartbeat pounds in his ears. Bile burns his throat and he can't breathe. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. He shakes his head, because he can't believe it, Sam wouldn't— There's no way.

"I'm sorry," Hayden says. Sam's eyes close and he goes still.

In the next moment, his eyes fly open again and he sucks in a huge gasp of air. It's Sam that stares at Dean now, wide eyed, mouth hanging open.

Dean's heart pounds, and adrenaline pumps through his system, but he's frozen solid as he stares back.

Sam moves first. He turns away, and his eyes search the room.

"Sammy—"

Sam ignores him. He grabs his coat off the back of a chair and makes for the door, though he stops with his hand wrapped around the handle. "I'm sorry," he says, before he slips out.

---

Across the street from the motel and down a bit, there's a big old church on the corner. The bells wake Dean at nine o'clock, still too early considering he tossed and turned and, once he'd finally accepted that Sam wasn't coming back, drifted off around dawn.

They usually do laundry together. Between jobs, if they can, when there's no hurry to be anywhere or do anything. Lately they don't even bother, hauling their gear back to the bunker because then they get to keep their quarters.

But damned if Dean is going to go the rest of the job with jizz stained boxers stuffed into the bottom of his bag. He had enough of that when he was a teenager. If Sam wants to wander around town all night with come in his jeans, that's his prerogative.

Sam was still Hayden, when he came. Dean was pinned beneath him when it happened, and Alex was already gone. Dean didn't shove Sam off after he regained control of his own body, he held him tighter, even moaned Sam's name. It's no surprise Sam walked away.

Dean eats snacks from the machine outside, and he watches his shirts and jeans and underwear go around in the drier. Sam could be anywhere by now. He didn't take the car, but Sam can take care of himself. After the horror Dean saw in his eyes last night, he wouldn't blame Sam for running as far as he could.

The door to their room is unlatched when he gets back, and he knows he locked it before he left. His heart is in his throat as he reaches for the gun tucked into the back of his jeans and slowly pushes the door open.

Sam's at the table, bits of broken plastic and wires spread out in front of him. Dean breathes a sigh of relief, that Sam's back, that there's not something in here he has to fight, and he steps through the door.

Sam lifts his head when Dean walks in. He looks beat, and a little panicked.

"You're back," Dean says, as he dumps his bag of laundry on the floor. He nods at the table. "I tried fixing it already. The EMF's done, man. Give it up."

Sam's hair is wet, like he's showered, at least. He pushes the broken electronics into a pile in the center of the table. "We should talk."

Dean walks right past Sam and pulls his own bag out from under his bed. "We shouldn't. We were possessed. It wasn't us and there's nothing to talk about." He pulls a bottle of whiskey out, twists off the cap and lifts it, a good swallow of burning liquid warming him almost immediately.

"So you're just going to get drunk?"

"Yes." Dean jumps on his bed, leaning up against the pillows as he pours more alcohol down his throat. "This is exactly the kind of situation getting drunk was invented for."

Sam's eyes stay on him until the bottle is half empty and Dean feels better. Then Sam sighs, pulls back the covers of his bed, and climbs in under them. He probably didn't get any sleep last night.

Dean watches him, notes the moment when the muscles in Sam's back relax and he falls asleep. He keeps watching, until Sam rolls over, then stares at Sam's face, soft and relaxed, until he falls asleep himself.

---

Dean wakes up with a stiff neck and a taste like old roadkill in his mouth. Sam's at the table again, eating a sandwich out of a plastic box, and he's on the computer. He still looks wrecked.

"Hope called," Sam says, eyes on the screen. "She's willing to meet with us tomorrow. I'm guessing she had to wait until Jim was out of the house."

"Hope," Dean says. "The mom?"

"The mom," Sam confirms.

"You think she knew her kids were keeping it in the family?"

Sam narrows his eyes. "Are you still drunk?"

Dean grins. Yes, he's still drunk, and thank god for that, because wasting half a bottle of whiskey on sleeping it off sucks.

Sam closes the laptop. He looks scared when he crosses the room and sits down on his own bed. "I'm sorry."

"If this is that talking thing that we're not doing, we're not doing it, Sammy."

"We have to. Otherwise things are going to be weird."

"Things are already plenty weird. It'll be weirder if we talk about it, believe me." Dean looks around him, spies the whiskey bottle on the bedside table and reaches for it. "Ghosts lie."

The color drains out of Sam's face, and he looks down at his hands. His mouth works, like he's trying to speak but can't find the words. He takes quick, shallow breaths.

Dean drinks more whiskey. If he can get drunker, then maybe it won't matter what Sam has to say.

"Hayden wasn't lying," Sam says, and his voice is almost a whisper. He keeps his eyes on his hands. He twists them together until his knuckles are white. "I let him in, and nothing he said while he was in control was a lie. I need you to know that, Dean. I just—" His lips curve in a wry smile. "Secrets aren't good."

Dean puts the bottle to his lips, keeps swallowing until Sam reaches out and takes it from him. "No, Sammy. He's messing with your head. Making you feel things that aren't you. We gotta burn that house. Get it done so we can go back to normal."

Sam shakes his head. "It won't work. It's not the knife or the rope or the house anymore. It's us." He turns his head, eyes searching the room. "They're haunting us. They're here, right now. When they possessed us at the house, something took hold, and it's not going to be simple to get rid of them."

Nausea roils in Dean's stomach. "No." He tastes bile, and the alcohol starts to come back up. "No." He swings his legs over the bed, makes it to the bathroom just in time. It burns his throat on the way. When he's done, he stands at the sink and rinses his mouth. Sam's reflected in the mirror as he stands at the open door with concern written all over his face. "No," Dean repeats. "We salt the place down. We do whatever we can to keep them out of us."

"It won't work." Sam comes closer. His arms lift just enough that Dean can see what's coming, and he wants it. But he pushes away when Sam tries to hug him. He shoves against Sam's chest because all it does is give him flashes of the night before. Of Sam, heavy on him, Sam's mouth on his, the desperate need to keep him close, and how he was never close enough. If Dean gives in to this, he'll be one step closer to complete surrender.

"We're gonna get rid of them, Sammy," he says. "Somehow, we're gonna kick those little bastards out."

Sam's hands linger on Dean's upper arms. He squeezes, hard, and he's shaking. "We need to find out who killed Hayden," he says. "I thought if we let them in, maybe they'd talk."

Dean's eyes slide down Sam's body, and with the alcohol still in his bloodstream it doesn't occur to him to stop. "They weren't much interested in talking." He meets Sam's eyes, and his voice goes hard. "Alex gets inside me again, you tell Hayden to stay the fuck away from you, okay?"