Chapter 3

It's by chance they catch wind of the job. Dean's getting fresh towels from the office and the manager is listening to one of those phone in radio shows. There's a guy on the line insisting that his girlfriend isn't his girlfriend.

The host treats him like he's insane, but there are details that make it most definitely their kind of thing, so instead of the towels, Dean checks them out of the motel.

It feels good to be back on the road.

More like normal. More like before.

Except that the tension between them is insane. Dean's never felt anything like it, not without acting on it. Sam touches him and he feels like he's on fire, looks at him and he feels stripped naked, says his name and—to Dean's ears—it sounds dirty.

Yeah okay. This isn't normal at all. But it feels a little closer to it.

---

Dean sprinkles holy water onto the palm of his right hand, then nods at his brother.

Sam knocks on the door.

It's a crappy house, on a worn-out street, in a small town like a thousand other small towns. The man that comes to the door is young, but tired-looking. Still, he gives them a bright smile.

Dean thrusts out his hand. "Tom Scholz," he says. "Weekly World News. We spoke on the phone?"

For a moment, the man seems confused.

"You are David Good?" Dean asks. His hand is still held out in front of him. A breeze cools his skin as the liquid still clinging to it evaporates.

"Oh. Yes," the man says, and takes Dean's hand, shaking it forcefully. "I'm sorry, I clean didn't expect you so soon."

No reaction. Dean throws a glance Sam's way. "My photographer, you can call him Brad."

Sam adopts a fake smile and nudges the crappy point-and-shoot camera hung around his neck. It's for show as much as anything.

"Come in," David says, and shows them inside.

He pauses in the kitchen to put on a fresh pot of coffee, and then ushers them through to the living room.

"You said on the phone you couldn't get hold of your girlfriend?" Dean says as he sinks into a threadbare, but deceptively comfortable couch.

"Oh, well," David says. "I'm sure she's just upset. After all, she did walk in on me with another woman."

"Another woman that you believed was your girlfriend?"

"She looked similar, that's all."

Dean throws Sam another look. "When we spoke on the phone, you gave me the impression they were identical."

The coffee machine in the kitchen gurgles.

David stands up. "How do you take it?"

Dean reluctantly pulls himself out of the cushions. "I'll help," he says. "Brad here is a bit fussy." He gives Sam a pointed look, jerking his head in the direction of the hallway, and follows David into the kitchen.

"I'm easy," Dean says. "I like my coffee dark and bitter. Like my soul." He winks. "Brad, though, oh my god. So much sugar you can stand the spoon up and just a drop of cream—"

Sam comes tearing around the corner. "David's tied up in the bathtub," he says. "Dean, that's not David."

Not-David was ready for them. He's got a kitchen knife in his hand, and he rushes forward. Dean deflects him, but all he succeeds in doing is sending him—and the knife—into Sam.

They both go down in a heap, and Dean's quick about hauling not-David up off of his brother, leaving Sam with a knife hilt-deep in his belly.

Dean yeanks the silver blade from his inside jacket pocket and plunges it deep into not-David's heart. He doesn't care that the lore says a concubus can't be killed unless they're vulnerable, he just stabs, and he stabs again as the monster goes down, until Dean's sure he's dead.

Then he turns back to Sam. Blood wicks into the fabric of Sam's shirt from the wound. "You good?" Dean asks. "Tell me, did he get anything vital?"

"We'll know when you pull it out."

"Goddammit." Dean looks back at the dead monster on the floor. "He gonna get back up again? What'd the lore say? I thought it said—"

"It's not the concubus, Dean. It's just a shapeshifter. It left its last skin in the bathroom. Dean, you gotta get David out."

"You didn't cut him free?"

"I was more interested in making sure you were okay."

Dean nods. He would have done the same thing. "Hold on, Sammy."

He finds the bathroom by following the sound of muffled yells, and he pulls out his pocket knife. "David, I assume," he says, as he cuts the man free. "You're gonna be okay."

"Who are you?" he says, when Dean rips the duct tape off his mouth.

"My name's Dean," Dean says, dropping the pretense. "We spoke on the phone, but I'm not a reporter. Sorry about the dead monster in your kitchen."

---

Dean doesn't breathe again until Sam's sewn up and comfortable, but the oxygen doesn't come easy. He had his hands on his brother, just like he's had his hands on his brother a hundred times before, a thousand times before.

He mopped up Sam's blood and stitched his wounds and remembered the times he put a band-aid on a skinned knee and kissed it better.

He wants to do that again, but it's different now. He wants to kiss Sam on the mouth, wants to take off his clothes and touch Sam everywhere. He wants to reassure himself Sam's still breathing, that Sam's heart is still beating, that he's alive.

He wants to celebrate that life. Wants to make Sam sigh, and gasp, and moan, and cry out in want, and desperate need, and in pleasure.

"Fuck." Dean rubs his hand over his face, through his hair. It's a good thing Sam passed out after Dean fed him the good painkillers, because Dean's so goddamned close to breaking.

He's tempted to pass out himself, but they're all out of booze, so he grabs the keys and goes looking for the nearest bar.

---

He stumbles back to the motel on foot in the early hours of the morning. The parking lot is silent, but there's light behind the curtains and Dean stops for a moment before he slots the key into the door.

At first, he thinks the sounds coming from beyond the door are cries of pain, and he fumbles the keys in his panic.

Then there's another moan, and he realises that's not it at all.

Dean knows what his brother sounds like when he's coming.

Fuck. The desire to see, to be there for it, is overwhelming. But even drunk off his ass, Dean knows what a betrayal that would be. Sam's been violated enough for a goddamn lifetime, having Dean walk in on him while he's jacking it would be too much.

Dean needs Sam to trust him.

He waits until it's quiet inside. Gives Sam the time to clean up, and finally, when Dean's sure it's safe, he slots the key in the door and slips inside.

Sam's sitting up against the headboard with the sheet rumpled in his lap and he's flushed and sweaty and there's a pink tinge to the bandage covering the wound on his belly.

Dean takes all this in in less than a moment because immediately his eyes are drawn to the other man in the room.

He's standing beside the bed and he's bent at the waist and as Dean watches, he straightens as he pulls up his jeans. His back is to the door, and his bare shoulders are peppered with freckles.

"What the fuck—" Dean breathes.

The same sentiment is clear on his brothers face. Shock, even horror as he stares into Dean's eyes.

The other man in the room looks over his shoulder, and there's a malicious twist to his lips as he smirks, and it's an expression Dean's never seen in the mirror, but otherwise, it's clearly his own face looking back at him.

"Oh hey," says that other Dean, the incubus, or concubus, or whatever they're calling it. "Good to see you again, Dean."

"Motherfucker," Dean spits, pulling the pistol from the back of his pants and aiming as he advances on the monster. "What the fuck did you do to my brother?"

The concubus turns, and a great force hits Dean in the chest, throwing him back against the wall. He drops the gun, all the breath in him punched out in one great gasp.

"What the fuck, indeed," the concubus says, as he stalks toward Dean. "Me and Sammy had a little fun, didn't we, Sam?"

Sam seems frozen, whether he's pinned like Dean is or just in shock, it's impossible to tell.

The concubus reaches Dean, and as he leans close, something about him shimmers, shifts, and then Dean's looking into his brother's face.

"I got lucky when he picked you," this fake, and yet utterly convincing, version of Sam says. "You're perfect. You released me. I'm never going to get tired of you two."

"We released nothing," Dean says, but he doesn't believe it. It's their fault, both of them essentially chose to do what they did, it's on them. "The witch—"

"The witch summoned me," the concubus says. "You released me. You and Sam, your lovemaking set me free."

"We were raped," Dean spits. It's a contradiction, but he believes it. "And you've just done the same to my brother, and I'll kill you for that."

This time the twist sits on his brother's face, and it's a tell Dean files away for later. "He needed a profane act, and you refused it. He needed a profane act to bind me to him, to make me his servant, and you didn't give it to him. You made love to your brother, Dean, and he to you, and in so doing set me free, and for that I'm grateful. For that I'll take only what you're willing to give—"

"Sam wasn't willing," Dean says. "You tricked him."

"But he wanted it, Dean. He wanted you."

It's not new information. It's not a revelation.

"And you want him." The concubus slides a hand up Dean's thigh, and against his wishes, Dean's cock twitches. "He felt so good inside me. So thick, so warm, so loving, Dean. I can't understand why you'd deny yourself that."

"He's my brother," Dean breathes. Pressure builds in his chest, chokes him. "I'm supposed to protect him, not—"

There's movement behind the monster, but Dean's careful not to let it show on his face, not to let it show in his body, though his muscles are screaming out to coil, to prepare.

"I'm not supposed to fuck my brother."

"Bullshit," the monster says. "You two were made for each other."

Sam creeps up behind. Tears stream down his blotchy, stricken face, but his hand is raised to strike and there's a silver blade clutched in his fist.

"We're going to kill you," Dean hisses, and then curses himself for giving it away after all, either in his words, or his face, or his body, because the monster turns and flings back an arm. Sam flies across the room to fall in a crumpled, unconscious, naked pile in the corner. "Sam!"

"We're not done," the concubus says, as he slips out the open door.

Moments later, Dean slides down the wall to his knees, and he scrambles across the room to his brother on the floor.

"Sam," he says, patting his brother's face to rouse him. "Sammy, wake up."

Sam's eyelids flutter, then open. They stare up at his brother, and it's clear when he remembers, because fear slips into them and he flinches back away from Dean.

"It's me," Dean says. "It's just me, Sammy. He's gone. You're safe."