Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at https://archiveofourown.org/works/13423260.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: Supernatural
Relationship: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Original
Female Character(s)
Character: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester
Additional Tags: Case Fic, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Slow Burn, Denial of Feelings,
Sharing a Bed, Dream Sex, Masturbation, Fake-Out Make-Out,
Sparring, Pre-Slash, Top Dean, Bottom Sam
Stats: Published: 2018-01-20 Completed: 2018-03-15 Chapters: 7/7 Words:
71745

Never Said a Word Beneath the Calm

by Eugara

Summary

Season 1. A wave of Missing Persons cases at an upscale couples resort catches the
Winchesters' attention, prompting them to go undercover to investigate. Dean figures
there's no harm in faking a romantic relationship with his little brother as long as it nets
them the best service the hotel can offer, but it's a little unsettling how easily the pretending
seems to come to him. Especially when Sam's acting has never been quite this good
before.

Notes

See the end of the work for notes

 Prologue

“I’m sorry,” the man on the phone says politely, emanating accommodating waves of his best ‘I’m
here to serve you, please don’t ask for my manager’ style of professionalism. “Your what?”

“My brother,” Dean repeats himself, using his hand to silently signal the bartender for another
beer. “We’re totally bushed, y’know? Desperately in need of a vacation, and then we happened to
see this ad for your amazing resort.” He injects an extra little bit of naïve, touristy excitement into
his tone at the concierge’s hesitance. “It’s exactly what we need,” he says, tapping at the
newspaper ad spread out on the bar. “A whole week of relaxation and springtime sun.” Dean
accepts the beer that suddenly appears in front of him with a flirtatious wink, savoring the way the
bartender playfully raises her eyebrows in return, before sliding the bottle over to Sam.

“No, Dean. I don’t want this,” his brother complains weakly, voice quiet enough that Dean
doesn’t have any trouble ignoring him. “We’ve gotta get an early start tomorrow—”

Dean just flaps a hand in Sam’s general direction, shushing him while he’s on the phone. “So
we’d like to book one of your rooms,” he continues, shifting his cell to his shoulder so he can get
at his own bottle. “Anything you’ve got left. We’re not picky.” He glances over with no small
amount of satisfaction to see that Sam is grudgingly tipping the new beer to his lips. Probably out
of boredom, if nothing else. Whatever. It isn’t Dean’s fault that it took him almost twenty minutes
to get through to the hotel’s line.

“Um, sir,” the desk guy interrupts tentatively. “Perhaps you’re mistaken? Le P’tit Bec is a couple’s
resort. I truly doubt that you and your…brother would be interested.”

“Nah, c’mon,” Dean replies casually. “We’re easy. Give us a couple of beds and a continental
breakfast and we’ll be over the moon.”

The concierge sighs, clearly nearing the end of his civility rope. “Sir, the included resort amenities
are non-optional.”

Dean rolls his eyes at his brother, miming a gun in his mouth at the snail’s pace of this
conversation, and Sam snorts into his beer. “Sounds good, Jeeves,” he says with fake
cheerfulness. “Sign us up.”

“Sir, I don’t think you understand me,” the man says tightly. “Our mandatory activity docket
includes a sensual couple’s massage, a romantic ride in a horse-drawn carriage, and a candlelit
dinner for two.” He pauses for an awkward beat. “Among other things.”

“Oh.” Dean finds himself uncharacteristically speechless at the new information, fiddling with the
edge of the newspaper for a few seconds until he manages to power through his dry-mouth.
“Well, uh, maybe we could just skip some of the foofier options.”

“I apologize, sir,” the man says stiffly, “but I don’t think Le P’tit Bec is for you. Why don’t you
try the Crown Point Inn two blocks down?” The line cuts off with an abrupt click, and Dean is left
blinking stupidly at the phone in his hands.

“You get it all worked out?” Sam asks sarcastically.

He snaps his cell shut and tosses it onto the wood of the bar. Completely uncharmed by his
brother’s unnecessary sass. “Fucker won’t book us ‘cause we’re not a couple,” he gripes.
“Apparently Le Petit Whatever only services customers that are banging.”
Sam does a very poor job of pretending not to look insufferable. “I told you so, Dean. We should
just go in as hotel maintenance or something.”

Dean does his best whiny impersonation of his brother, then tips the last dregs of his own drink
into his open mouth. “No way in hell am I skulking around some drippy back room in a freaking
jumpsuit when we could be relaxing in style.”

“Yeah, except we can’t be,” Sam points out, pretty fucking obnoxiously. “It’s a couples resort,
man. They aren’t gonna cater to anyone who isn’t part of a twosome. So,” he says, glancing
around the bar a little and lowering his voice by half, “if we wanna get to the bottom of all the
disappearances, we’re gonna have to go blue collar.”

Dean grudgingly starts to imagine himself in one of Sam’s stupid disguises, probably scratchy,
unflattering plumber coveralls, then freezes in place as a gloriously terrible idea begins to take root
in his brain. Like, a really terrible idea. Top ten, at least. “Y’know,” he says carefully nonchalant,
casually rubbing a finger around the lip of his empty bottle, “we’re a twosome.”

Sam’s eyes widen as he almost fumbles the beer right out of his hands. “Not that kind of
twosome,” he chokes, managing to catch his drink at the last second with a clumsy clunk of glass
against wood.

“No, I’m serious.” Dean swivels around on his barstool and brackets his brother’s bony knees
with his own. Sam shifts a bit at the sudden closeness, making to create some space between them,
so Dean claps a hand around his leg to get him to stop fidgeting. “We just go in there, pretending
to be in big gay love or some shit, and then we get to experience the finest four-star service the
Bayou State has to offer. While investigating all the mysterious disappearances, of course,” he
tacks on quickly.

Sam just gapes at him for another silent minute, twitchy and awkward. “You’re drunk, right? Are
you drunk?” He squints and leans in close enough that Dean has to back away to keep him in
focus. “How drunk are you?”

Dean swats a hand between their faces, waving him away. “Dude, I’m not drunk. You’ve been
matching me all night. If I was drunk, you’d be unconscious.” Dean wavers for a second, then
gives in and reaches out to snag a sip of his brother’s beer, even though it’s probably undermining
the very point he just made. Whatever, Sam’s not gonna finish it anyway.

“Dean, there’s no way in hell,” Sam says warily, “that you just suggested what I think you just
suggested.”

“What’s the big deal?” Dean asks in exasperation, gesturing with the neck of Sam’s own bottle.
“We used to pull this kinda crap all the time when we were dealing with jumpy civilians. What,
you forget how to do the job while you were throwing keggers and rushing sororities?”

Sam doesn’t answer him right away. He just gets a funny look on his face and grabs his beer back,
taking a few long pulls before directing his conversation to the bar counter. “We don’t need to
pretend to be…that to do the job, Dean,” he mutters nervously.

“If you can’t say it, Sammy, then you’re probably not old enough to be doing it,” he snarks back.

“Dude, c’mon, I’m being serious here.” Sam runs a hand over the back of his head and furtively
glances back up to meet his eyes. His poor little brother is lighting up pretty damn pink already
and Dean can’t stifle the huff of amusement the sight brings him.

He’s always been like this really. Any time Dean used to introduce them as a couple to endear
themselves to a gay witness or whatever, or just to fuck with his brother, Sam would go red as a
friggin’ tomato and freeze in place, muscles locking down rigid under Dean’s meandering palm
until they could get away from the interview and back to where their dad was waiting for them in
the car. And then the instant they were out of sight, Sam would land a sharp elbow to his ribs and
snarl at him to “Cut it the fuck out, asshat.”

Dean had even tried it again a few weeks back during that whole bug curse thing and Sam had
stiffly walked around like he had a four-foot stick up his ass for the rest of the afternoon.

“Sam,” Dean tries cajolingly, “c’mon, man, we’ve gotta play it this way.” He quickly racks his
brain for a believable reason Sam will actually go for. Cush accommodations and four-star
amenities may be at the top of his list, but they ain’t exactly gonna hold water in a logical
argument. “We’ll, uh—we’ll be able to stake the place out way easier,” Dean says brightly, trying
to make it sound like he’d thought of it from the start. “Right? We’ll have way more access to
actual living spaces, and the guests are gonna be ten times as likely to talk to other folks staying
there than they would be to a couple of repairmen or something.”

“That’s…true,” Sam says a little grudgingly.

“And,” Dean adds, smacking the back of his hand against his brother’s chest, “we won’t need any
excuses for coming back again and again for however long the case takes. It’ll be way less
suspicious if there’s a reason for us being there 24/7.”

Sam scrunches up his nose a little and worries at his fingernails, clearly about to relent. “Okay,
yeah,” he says quietly.

Dean settles back in his seat, smug about winning, and allows himself to fantasize about potential
water pressure for a glorious second. “Then congratulations,” he says proudly. “You get to be the
one to check us in as a duo because Smarmy McTightwad would probably recognize my voice.”
He tosses the folded-up newspaper at Sam’s chest. “Number’s on the ad.”

The bartender catches his eye as he finishes off the last of Sam’s beer, then deliberately places one
of the maraschino cherries from the garnish holder into her mouth and, without breaking their
gaze, pulls the stem back out with a perfect knot in it.

Dean clears his throat at the expectant stare she gives him and tries not to look too ridiculously
eager. “So, uh, yeah,” he directs back at Sam without exactly turning to look at him. “Why don’t
you get on that?”

Sam lets out a snort beside him. It isn’t until the crinkle of newspaper and scooting sound of a
stool that Dean glances over to catch his brother smiling to himself and shaking his head. “I don’t
know why I put up with dating someone like you,” he teases lightly.

And just that slightest dash of Sam joking back with him—Sam never jokes back with him about
this—sends an unexpected flush racing through Dean’s chest. It makes him feel good. Warm.
Maybe he did have a little more to drink than he’d thought. Or maybe it’s just too stuffy in here.
Dean tugs at the collar of his t-shirt to circulate some air over his chest, then verbally stumbles a
little bit, thrown off-guard by Sam’s comment. “Yeah, well,” he says, not smooth or clever at all,
“don’t wait up, tiger.”

Sam rolls his eyes at the predictable turn of events, then his smile almost wavers, or maybe it’s just
a trick of the light, and he’s got his motel key out of his jeans and is heading for the door in the
next moment. “See you in the morning, Casanova,” Sam tosses over his shoulder. “Try not to
bring home any new rashes.”
Dean watches his brother leave, and then lingers. Keeps staring at the door well after Sam’s
already disappeared through it. It’s not until the bartender softly clears her throat behind him that
he finally turns back to what he’s supposed to be focusing on with a mind-clearing shake of his
head. Yeah, alright, that was a little weird, but judging from the way the knockout behind the
counter is still smirking at him, Dean hasn’t ruined the mood or anything.

He’s just not sure why he suddenly, strongly felt like heading back to the motel with Sam, even if
it meant leaving his sure thing here behind. Dean shoves the ridiculous, atypical notion out of his
head and brings his attention back to the chick making eyes at him. Tossing her a well-used smirk
of his own as he settles up.

…Maybe he is more drunk than he thought. It would explain the weird thrum in his chest the last
few minutes, at least. Though there’s no way in hell that he’s gonna tell Sam he was right. Little
bitch would be even more annoyingly self-righteous than he usually is. Dean tosses Xavier
Waldroop’s credit card onto the counter and has to mentally wrangle his brother out of his
thoughts for the moment, weirdly difficult, like it always is. He’ll just make sure to keep better
count of his bottles next time.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Okay. Let’s go over it again.”

Sam lets out a half-amused sound from the passenger seat and shifts the laptop resting on his legs.
“Go over what, exactly?” he says flatly, attention still clearly focused on whatever he’s typing.

Dean tosses his brother a look even if he can’t see it. “Whaddya mean ‘what’?” he snips back at
him. “Our cover. Our—whatever you call it—“ he says, twirling his free hand in the air between
them, “our backstory.”

“We’re dating and we’re going to a couples’ resort for our anniversary,” Sam says distractedly. He
takes a break from the incessant typing to click the trackpad a couple of times. “Not much more to
go over than that.”

Dean tightens his left hand on the wheel in irritation, now thoroughly intent on tripping Sam up
due to being ignored. “What do we do for a living?” he asks snidely.

“Insurance. Our work takes us to a lot of different places.”

Alright, that’s fair. It’s one of their go-tos. Vague enough that people will believe them and boring
enough that no one will pry. Dean thins his lips in frustration at losing and doubles down. “And
where do we live?”

“Colorado.”

Dean lets out a tense huff of air through his nose. “Had that one in your back pocket, did you?”

Sam finally tosses him a glance. “It makes sense,” he says. “We just came from there.” Then he
seems to second-guess himself a little, maybe regretting steamrolling over Dean’s every question.
“It doesn’t have to be Bent County though, if you don’t want.”

It doesn’t take Dean long to come up with a suggestion. “Alamosa,” he says quickly, accepting
the olive branch for what it is. He had soloed a pair of vetalas there about a year back and it had
taken a good three or four weeks. He knows it well enough that he could improvise if anyone
asked. “Bent County ain’t liberal enough for a gay couple.”

“There are gay people in red cities too, Dean,” Sam mutters to himself—or pretends to mutter to
himself. It’s just loud enough that he can hear it.

“You wanna make our job harder or easier, Sam?” he snits back just as quick.

Sam bites firmly at the inside of his cheek. “Alright, fine,” he says, relenting probably just to stop
an unnecessary fight. “Alamosa it is.”

Dean rolls the tip of his tongue against one of his eyeteeth and stalls for a bit. He’s been
intentionally circling the really awkward question, but it needs to be asked. “…How long have we
been together?”

“Our whole lives,” Sam answers without missing a beat. The dumbfounded look Dean gives him
must spur his brother into actually engaging because he finally pushes the laptop shut with a sigh.
“Dude, there’s no reason to overcomplicate things. The closer we stick to the truth the easier it’s
gonna be.” He hesitates for a moment, like he’s warring with himself, before continuing.
“Childhood friends to high school sweethearts is gonna be the most believable…when it comes to
us,” he says haltingly. “And it’ll give us a little leeway if we accidentally slip up at all.”

Something goes all fizzy and weird in Dean’s chest and he rubs a hand over the spot until it stops.
“Well you’ve just got everything all figured out on your own, now don’t you?”

“I had a lot of down time while you were with your friend last night.”

He can’t stop a smile from tugging at his lips at the reminder, back on stable ground now. “Very
good friend,” he concurs.

Sam lets out an annoyed breath and fiddles with the end of his long sleeve, tugging at the fabric,
one-handed. “Is there anything else?” he asks. “Or can I go back to what I was doing?”

And Dean has to admit to himself that Sam’s got the whole thing pretty well thought-out. “Fine,”
he lets out on a stubborn sigh. “But I’m serious, Sam. If anyone asks, you’re the girl.”

His brother rolls his eyes. “There are no girls, Dean. That’s kinda the whole point of a
homosexual relationship.”

“No, I mean you’re the—” He awkwardly acts out a series of short, jerky movements with his
hands and his eyebrows. Trying to get his point across without actually having to say it.

“The limbo dancer?”

“The one who takes it.”

Sam blushes so bright that airplanes could use him for a landing signal. “N-no one’s gonna ask,
Dean,” he stutters wildly.

“Well if they do, you’re the catcher.”

“Oh my God,” he says in muted disbelief, directing his gaze upwards like he’s actually praying for
the big guy to Calgon him away from this embarrassing moment.

“I mean, they’ll probably figure that’s the case anyway,” Dean continues over his brother’s
aggrieved muttering. “They’ll take one look at us and just immediately assume that you’re the one
who bends over for it.”

“Jesus Christ, Dean.” Sam leans forward and hides his face in his hands this time. “Please stop
talking,” he begs through his fingers.

“I’m just saying, Sammy—”

“It’s Sam.”

“—it’s the hair. Makes you look all sensitive.” He blindly reaches out to ruffle a hand through his
brother’s bangs, chuckling when he misses and knocks his knuckles against forehead instead.
Luckily, Sam just swipes him off in mild annoyance. “Or maybe,” Dean says, pushing it even
further, “it’s the big, quivering, doe eyes.” He leans over as far as he safely can and obnoxiously
bats his own eyelashes to land his point.

Sam, transparently grateful for the subject change, just gets a teasing hand flat against his shoulder
and shoves him back to his side of the car. “Look who’s talking, asshat.”

Dean lets out a scoff. “Please,” he says dryly. “Your stupid puppy-dog thing could put me to
shame any day. Seriously, they get all wide and dewy, like some chick anime character. ‘Oh
please trust me, random civilian’,” he mimics, his voice an octave higher than normal. “’I just so
ever want to save you’.”

“I do not sound like that.”

Dean doesn’t pull back an inch on the Sam voice. “‘Let’s stay here and hug’,” he coos, “‘and then
we can make daisy chains while we wait for my badass and devilishly handsome older brother to
save the day’.”

Sam stays quiet for just a little too long. “Yeah, right,” he says eventually, but it rings out a little
weird and Dean actually makes the effort to glance over at him. Sam clears his throat and sets his
expression to what it’s supposed to be. His voice has the right mocking tone to it now, but he
won’t meet Dean’s gaze. “You’re full of it, man.”

It’s a weak comeback even by Sam’s standards and Dean can’t help but side-eye his brother a
little longer. “You feeling okay over there, Sammy?”

“I’m fine,” he says instantly, forgetting to correct him about the name thing. Sam picks at the
sticker on the back of the laptop for a moment, then gets a giant hand around the entire thing and
tosses it into the backseat. “Gonna try and get some sleep,” he says, playing at casual, then shifts
around until he’s twisted up like a pretzel against the side door. Because, apparently, right now is
the perfect time to take a sudden cat nap—or maybe it’s just a ploy to escape the ensuing
conversation.

Dean lets it go anyway, flipping through his presets until he lands on the soft rock one he keeps
just for Sam. He feels a sharp spike of nerves go prickling through his heart at the awareness that
he’s been too obvious. He forgot to pretend to mess around a bit with the dial, make it look like he
was searching harder for it. But his brother doesn’t seem to notice the fact that he’d clearly kept
this station saved through all the years Sam was away—or, at the very least, he doesn’t say
anything about it—so Dean takes a deep breath and forces himself to relax. If Sam brings it up,
he’ll just claim that he re-set it once they started riding together again. He flicks his gaze back to
the blacktop river vanishing under his tires and lets his heart slow down. Yeah, that’ll work fine.

The song fizzes a bit, in and out with faint static, but Dean can pick out enough to recognize
Clapton, and it should be plenty to let Sam sleep. He can’t exactly remember where the station
hails from, Kansas maybe, but it’s always clearest the closer they are to smack-dab middle
America and they’ve been coming up on the Texas border for an hour or so now. They probably
don’t have too long before Dean will have to fiddle with the tuning dial for real if he doesn’t want
to go back to his tapes.

Dean loses himself in the drive for a couple hours; the thrum of his Baby’s engine purring
underneath him, the soft fade-out-fade-in between Don Henley and James Taylor and Dewey
Bunnell, the slowly ebbing light of early evening. It never fully got sunny today, yesterday either,
and the dark gray just made its way to slightly paler gray and then back to dark again.

He glances over once they’ve gotten through the third consecutive Cat Stevens song this hippie
fucking station has decided to play to find Sam fully conked out against the passenger window,
lips parted slightly and his breath intermittently fogging up the glass. The sight causes Dean’s
palm to start itching for no reason at all, and he gets an idle urge to run his hand from Sam’s
shoulder all the way down the long curve of his back. Just for the feel of it. Even if it would
probably wake him up. Although, at that realization, Dean almost wants to do it even more. Get a
little bit of revenge for Sam acting like such a know-it-all douche earlier. But the kid hasn’t been
sleeping well since—well, since Stanford, honestly—and Dean knows he’d never do something
that shitty no matter how much he wants to. He turns back to the road instead, twisting the volume
dial so low it’s almost off.

“This is my boyfriend Sam,” Dean practices softly, far too quiet for his brother to actually hear.
Trying to get his mouth around the lie. It sounds stupid though, so he tries again. “I’m Dean, and
this is Sam. We’re here for our anniversary. What’s that? Oh, we’ve been together roughly ten
years now.” No. Dean shifts his shoulders in annoyance and tightens his grip on the wheel. That
one was even more awkward somehow. “This is Sammy,” he says simply. And it sounds better. It
sounds true. “We’ve been together our whole lives, practically. Couldn’t even tell you when it first
started.” Dean relaxes into the story, finally comfortable with it, and lets his brain take the lead.
“He’s the girl, in case you’re wondering. Although you probably guessed that already. Heh.
Yeah, Sammy here likes it best when I hold him down and fuck him from behind. Hard. Really
dig my fingers into his hips and go to town. Just fuck him senseless until he starts begging like a
bitch in heat for anything I can give him—”

Something swoops sudden and hot in his gut and Dean has to turn the radio back up to smother
the disquieting feeling down. To get the insane statement out of his head. It was…it was probably
brought on by boredom or sleep deprivation or something. Or maybe just having to listen to
goddamn Cat Stevens three times in a row. Yeah, that’s it. Just a brief moment of insanity thanks
to Sam’s shitty taste in music. It wasn’t Dean’s fault. Not at all.

Part of him wants to say it again.

Dean violently turns the radio up so loud that Sam snorts awake next to him.

“Hey, you’re up,” he says too cheerfully. Steering to avoid manic as best he can. “What are you
thinking, dinner-wise? ‘Cause I saw a billboard for cheeseburgers about five miles back and now I
can’t think about anything else.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They make it to Louisiana a little bit after eleven, stopping at the first motel they come across. It’s
roughly five more hours to Crown Point, and there’s no way a nice, classy couple of their
supposed standing would roll in that late, so Dean’s parked them for the night at Benton’s nicest
Super 8. The really nice one. No corpses in the box-springs or anything.

Sam had made a beeline for the room the first chance he got, probably intent on doing some more
of his never-ending research, but Dean’s still feeling just the slightest bit off-center. Nervous and
wired from his unsettling moment back during his brother’s nap. He’d fidgeted all through dinner,
twitchy and uncomfortable, and only managed to put away about half of his burger. Sam had even
asked if he was sick. And now his stomach’s growling at him, pissy at being half-empty.

Dean lingers another moment longer, watching the sliver of vertical light from their room’s slightly
ajar door. Sam had left it open behind him, figuring Dean would be following right after. Like
always. Part of Dean wants to. But another part of Dean can’t seem to scrape his earlier words out
of his head. He clenches his hands into fists, then heads in the opposite direction, deciding to grab
a bag of chips from the vending machine around the corner. At least it’ll get his stomach to shut
up.

He finishes the remainder of his dinner in under a minute, tapping at the bag to catch the last of the
flavor powder, then hesitates again. Sam’s closed the door by now, probably assuming that Dean
is busy with something, and Dean should be. He should… Dean glances around, trying to find
something to catch his attention. The car. He should organize the car. That’s it. That’s a totally
valid reason as to why he’s still standing out in an empty motel parking lot in the middle of the
night. And it makes perfect sense. He can’t head in after Sam, can’t be enclosed in that too-small,
too-warm space with his little brother—the one he’ll soon have to pretend to be sleeping with—
while Baby’s trunk is still a mess. Of course not.

Dean crumples up the empty chip bag and shoves it into his jacket pocket, then makes his way
over to the Impala. Some of their newly-acquired crap doesn’t comfortably fit under the false
bottom, so they’ve been keeping it in the regular trunk out of laziness. He twists his key into the
rear lock and assesses the mess.

It isn’t too bad, really. Nothing particularly revealing or sinister. Their weapons are all safely
stored away and most of the stuff he’s looking at wouldn’t be out of place in your typical civilian’s
backseat. There’s Dean’s duffel, looking a little lonely without Sam’s backpack to accompany it,
some loose pieces of cold-weather apparel, their slim jim, which Dean should probably secret
away somewhere before they get to the fancy hotel, and the sturdy, dusty box full of family stuff
that Jenny lady had passed on from their old basement.

Dean pauses at that last one. It isn’t incriminating or anything, but it’s precious—filled with
innocent memorabilia from a normal childhood—and Dean’s not sure how he’d handle losing it if
someone decided to steal it out of their trunk. Sam either, apparently, because once he gets the
thing open, he realizes his brother has already started to add to their little collection. Dean can’t
help the faint smile on his face as he thumbs over the assorted keepsakes.

The mainstays are still there, a couple of crayon-scribbled cards Dean must have made as a kid, a
dirt-stained, beat-up baseball that probably belongs to their dad, the old family photos. But there’s
a newer polaroid secretly slipped in among the rest. The colors sharp and clear against the creased
edges and faded sepia tones of the older ones. Dean carefully pulls out maybe the only picture
he’s seen of Sam actually laughing, from when they’d worked that lake case a few months back,
and something in him goes warm at the thought that his brother wanted to keep this memory. His
smile grows a little wider before he puts it away again, skimming his fingers over the other
photographs.

Most of the rest are of their parents, either alone or together, and Dean’s pored over them more
than a few times in the last month. He pauses once he gets to the picture of their entire family.
John, Mary, Dean, and Little Sammy as the back caption reads. There’s an exact copy of it that
John, Mary, Dean, and Little Sammy as the back caption reads. There’s an exact copy of it that
their dad keeps in the journal. An identical shot, only John’s not in it—the one taking the photo
probably. Dean’s seen it a million times, just like all of the rare, finger-worn pictures their dad
holds onto, but there’s something compelling about the slight difference. Like seeing something
familiar he’s known a thousand times before through a new lens. Completely the same and yet
completely not.

Dean soaks in the image of a happy, normal family for one more moment before making up his
mind, tucking the picture back in its place inside the box and reaching over to unzip his duffel. He
tugs out his dad’s journal, flips it open to the right page and plucks out the twin photo. Mom, him,
and Sam. Then he slips it in right next to its copy. They belong together. Dean swallows a little as
he surveys their piecemeal family album. Now John has made a contribution to their collection
too, even if he isn’t here. Him and Sam. Dean doesn’t wait long before adding his own. Another
bookmark from the journal. A simple picture of him and Sam as kids. They both can’t be more
than a couple years off of twelve in either direction and there’s nothing special about the captured
moment, not like Sam’s photo. It’s just him and his brother looking at the camera, Sam making a
disgruntled face at having his picture taken, but it’s something. Somehow.

Dean lets out a breath, the anxious thrumming in his chest finally smothered as he closes and
latches the wooden lid.

“Spring cleaning?” Sam asks lightly from behind him and Dean startles, smacking the backs of his
fingers against Baby’s metal. “Shit, sorry,” his brother laughs. “You okay?”

Dean just fixes Sam with a steady, unimpressed stare, shaking out his hand until the pain fades
away. “You skulking up on me on purpose?”

“Maybe you’re just getting rusty.”

“Yeah, look who’s talking.”

Sam accepts the jibe with uncharacteristic ease, then lugs their cooler out of the backseat, grabbing
a beer for each of them before closing it again so he can sit on it. “What’re you doing out here?”
he asks, holding out both bottles.

Dean automatically pops the caps off with his ring before handing one back to Sam, running on
pure habit. “Don’t want any of the fancy-schmancy hotel guests accidentally catching a glimpse of
anything suspicious.” He takes a long, glorious pull of his beer and mentally reminds himself that
they’re running low.

“So you are spring cleaning,” Sam says teasingly.

“I’m very responsibly making sure no civvies get their panties in a twist at seeing our weapons
cache,” Dean lobs back.

Sam makes a bad attempt at hiding his smirk behind the lip of his own bottle, pretending he’s just
taking a sip. “So, I’ve been looking up on the missing people a little more,” he says, changing the
subject either out of politeness or because he knows he’ll lose this verbal sparring match. Dean
decides it’s the second one.

“Anything?” he asks.

“Not much.” Sam cracks his back and shifts around on the cooler a little. “I guess the most
surprising thing is that they aren’t all couples. I mean, the majority are,” he adds quickly, “but
sometimes it’s just one of them. Guy or girl. Doesn’t seem to be much of a pattern.”

Dean easily picks up on his brother’s point. “So the only thing the vics have in common is
location.”

“Yup.”

Dean taps his ring against the neck of his bottle as he thinks. “Alright, so best bet is it’s somebody
who works at the hotel. Or nearby.”

Sam nods. “Or someone who does maintenance maybe. We can crosscheck the dates of the
disappearances with service calls.”

“You can crosscheck the dates with that shit,” Dean mutters. But Sam just smiles at the
responsibility. Because the giant dork actually likes being the handy-dandy research boy.

One of the ancient streetlights sputters out behind them, but neither of them give it more than a
passing glance. “Y’know,” Sam says with a gesture of his drink, “none of the bodies have ever
been recovered. It’s possible some of them might still be alive.”

“Oh, please,” he snarks, “like that’s gonna happen. Those dates go back years. You know the
leftovers are all floating in the swamp.”

“Bayou, technically,” Sam corrects him unnecessarily.

“—Probably half-eaten by gators,” Dean continues, ignoring him. “That is, whatever wasn’t
already chewed off by the creepy-crawly we’re chasing.”

“Gross.”

Dean raises his eyebrows in agreement. “So…we get there tomorrow,” he says, taking another
sip. “Monday. And you paid for the week, right?”

“Ogbert Witherspoon paid for the week,” Sam points out, tapping at the money clip full of sham
cards in his pocket.

“We’re probably not even gonna need all five days.” Dean absent-mindedly scratches at an itch on
the back of his head. “I let Dad know where we’re headed, he might call me back if he has any
ideas.”

Sam lets out a bitter sound. “He’s not gonna call us back, Dean.”

“He might,” Dean insists, feeling like he needs to.

But apparently, he’s soured the mood. Just the sheer mention of their father is enough to trigger his
brother’s over-sensitive angsting.

“I’m just surprised you actually wanted to take this case,” Sam snits. “Given that Dad didn’t send
us here to play fetch with more of his super-secret coordinates.”

Dean can already feel the headache starting at his temples. “If Dad had given us coordinates,” he
says stiffly, “we’d be there instead of here.” Sam scoffs, but Dean presses onwards. “Everything
he does, he does for a reason, Sam. I follow his orders because he knows better than me. He
knows better than you, too. And if he doesn’t contact us, it’s probably only because he’s knee-
deep in some other hunt.” Dean takes another tense pull of his beer, fingers wrapped too tight
around the neck of his bottle as he finishes it off. “He’ll text me back if he can help.”

Sam lets out a sharp, skeptical huff of air, his mouth going tight at the corners. “Dude, he literally
only figured out texting just to order us around. If he does write you back, it’ll only be to send us
on some other stupid goose chase. Far away from him.”

“To protect us,” Dean says evenly.

Sam finally goes quiet at that one. It’s the truth, mostly, and Sam can’t refute it. “Yeah,” he says,
“maybe.” The half-hearted argument lingers between them for another short moment, until Sam
eventually breaks it by taking another drink. “What?” he asks dully, a hint of humor in it as he
pokes at Dean’s tension. “I figured you’d be used to this by now.”

Half of Dean is still groaning in annoyance at his brother’s bitching—but the other half tugs
sharply toward a familiar yearning. Because Sam’s right, he’s been surly ever since he was a kid.
Whenever Dad was in the picture. …But never more so than that year.

That year. That precious, perfect, all-too-brief year after Sam had graduated high school. Before
he’d dropped the Stanford bombshell. For almost an entire year it had just been the three of them
hunting, their whole family together against the world, and Dean had stupidly thought it would
last forever. He would give anything to get it back.

“Well, I guess it never gets any less annoying, bitch.”

“Jerk,” Sam teases back softly. And just like that, the fight’s over. He rolls his bottle against his
leg, wiping the condensation off on the knee of his jeans. “Maybe we should call Missouri
Mosely,” he says, only half joking. “She could just flat-out tell us what the thing we’re hunting is
and save us all the trouble.”

Dean’s eyes roll back in his head so hard he almost fails to catch up with them. “Oh, yeah,” he
coos sarcastically, “Missouri was a great psychic. She told us we’d completely gotten rid of the
thing in our house after her hex-bags-in-the-walls shtick. Nearly got that whole family killed. Not
to mention she failed to realize that one of the things in there was Mom.”

Sam takes another casual sip of his beer. “Whatever, man. You just get pissy whenever a woman
doesn’t immediately fall at your feet.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean says petulantly, “must have been the first time it ever happened for you. Don’t
get too excited.” He tosses his empty bottle into the nearest recycling bin with a punctuating clink.
“Or used to it.”

Sam finishes his own drink right on Dean’s heels, expectantly holding his bottle out until Dean
grabs it and chucks it for him. Not for the first time, he wonders if he’d spoiled his little brother.
But he can’t seem to ever hold out for long against Sam’s stupid face. And Sam must sense Dean
figuratively rolling over because he reaches out for help getting up off the cooler too. He doesn’t
need to, it’s not like the little shit can’t just get his own ass up, but Dean relishes the contact
anyway. He grasps his forearm tightly, his hand closer to Sam’s wrist than it needs to be, and pulls
his giant little brother to his feet.

But someone must have placed their damn foot wrong because in the next second they’re
suddenly chest-to-chest, his jacket grazing Sam’s lapels with each breath. And given that his eye
line is now barely two inches from Sam’s lips, which are currently quirked up in amusement at
their misstep, the only thought his poor, beleaguered mind is capable of forming is—pink. The
concept wiping everything else clean from his brain. Dean tries not to inhale too deeply and
awkwardly cricks his neck back as he’s forced to look up in the nonexistent space between them,
but Sam doesn’t step away. Doesn’t seem to even mind. His eyes are warm and fond beneath his
eyelashes, and they almost look gray in the sporadic lighting. “We should probably try to get some
sleep,” he says, quiet enough that only they can hear. “We can always fight more in the morning.”
Dean’s stomach goes weird again. He slips his hands into his pockets, then realizes his empty chip
bag from before is still in there, so he trashes that too. And not just because it gives him an excuse
to step back to a safe distance. “I dunno, man,” he stalls weakly. “I might spend a little more time
tuning up Baby.”

But Sam only smiles, like nothing out of the ordinary has just happened in the last few seconds.
“Come to bed, Dean,” he says, turning to make his way back to their room. And his brother
doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s just telling him to come inside instead of standing alone in the
middle of a parking lot. He’s being reasonable. There’s no secret, underlying message to his
softly-worded proposition.

But Dean’s heart starts beating double-time anyway and his mouth goes all dry. It’s just because
of earlier. Everything’s been off and uncomfortable since that moment in the car. That’s all this is.
So he decides to go for broke in the other direction, scrabbling for normalcy.

“Sure, sweetheart,” Dean purrs lasciviously. “You gonna slip into some lingerie first?” He adds an
over-the-top eyebrow waggle, turning the whole thing into an absurd joke until he’s in control of
the situation again.

Sam stutters, almost tripping over his own feet before whipping around to fix him with a bitchy,
scandalized glare. And that finally makes Dean feel better. More on the level.

Sort of.
 Monday

“Ah, yes. I have your reservation right here, Mr.…Witherspoon?”

“Sam,” his brother corrects instantly. “Sam Wright. Mr. Witherspoon’s, uh, a friend of ours.
Booked the week for us as an anniversary gift.”

It’s a bit of a clumsy excuse, but Dean knows Sam would bend and twist through any necessary
hoops to make sure he isn’t called ‘Ogbert’ all week long.

They’d left early enough this morning to make it in time for check-in—Sam wanting to take
advantage of every single second they’d booked here and Dean grumbling and pissy about being
woken up at such a godforsaken hour even as he’d slipped behind the wheel. It’s just barely past
noon now and the McDonald’s drive-through they’d grabbed on the way isn’t nearly enough to
make up for Sam being so incessantly type-A about this case.

It’s odd is what it is, on top of being annoying. Sam had been the one to bail on the whole hunting
thing in the first place and now he’s all insistent about arriving on time and acting like
professionals. Efficient and clinical. Like they’re just coworkers or something. Like this shitty little
job is deserving of all his focus instead of taking a moment to enjoy the fact that they’re in it
together. And, yeah, Dean’s usually the one throwing that exact argument in his brother’s face,
but being on the business end of it like this is rubbing up against him all wrong. They could have
at least stopped for breakfast. Whatever. Sam’s been acting off since the night they’d left
Colorado.

Dean scrunches his nose up at his own mental complaining. It’s hypocritical and it’s whiny and he
doesn’t really have a leg to stand on, even in his own head, so he shoulders his way past his
brother to make room at the counter.

“Dean Waters,” he says smoothly, introducing himself to the clerk and letting the handshake linger
a little more than strictly necessary.

He had been pleased to find a woman manning the front desk when they’d walked in, instead of
the guy he’d spoken to earlier on the phone. Or—womanning the desk—he guesses, whatever the
P.C. term for that is. She’s got short, dark hair cropped bluntly at her bangs and chin, bright eyes
and a bushy tail, and a gleaming smile that wouldn’t be out of place in a Crest commercial. All
neat and tidy professionalism. All expensive accommodation. All thank you sir, may I have
another? Dean clears his throat and adjusts himself a little, then relegates that thought to the back
of his mind for later tonight.

“You can go ahead and charge everything to that card,” he explains, giving her a charming smile.
“I’m sure Ogbert fully intends for us to have a good time here.”

“Don’t push it,” Sam whispers in his general direction, just quiet enough that she won’t hear.

“I’m talking full-service, all the amenities and everything,” Dean continues, ignoring his brother
completely. The smothered, aggrieved sigh from behind him is totally worth it.

The concierge smiles brightly back at him. “Of course, sir,” she says. “We at Le P’tit Bec strive to
make sure that your visit here will be an enjoyable one.”

Dean doesn’t even attempt to tamp down the smug feeling rising through him. “Why thank
you...Abby,” he adds on, quickly glancing down to her nametag. He can hear Sam impatiently
fiddling with his backpack, so he brings his brother up front and center, sliding an arm around his
shoulders and teasing the fluffy hair at the nape of his neck until Sam twitches away. “I wouldn’t
have anything less for my Sammy,” he coos.

Sam finally manages to peel Dean off of him without looking too suspicious, the pinched look of
embarrassment probably helps, and he leans in over the desk to go over the boring details of their
room. Dean basks in the victory for a brief moment, then lets his attention drift over the rest of the
place. With their usual grungy motels it’s just number of beds and cost, but nice hotels like this are
apparently more complicated than that. And more boring. Though it’s not like the lobby has that
much more to hold his interest. His eyes settle on one of the many duplicate posters haphazardly
pasted all over the walls. The one behind the front desk is the only one close enough that he can
read. It’s slightly off-kilter, like they’d just slapped them up recently, but the bold, dark lettering is
clear as day. As is the giant red circle slashed through a silhouette of a swimming stick figure.

WARNING—NO SWIMMING IN THE BAYOU. BE GATOR SAFE.

Dean flicks his eyes over to one on the far side of the room. He can’t exactly make out the words,
but the picture looks like a dude hiking. And then there’s a fishing warning up behind the fancy
coffeemaker.

Yeah, right. If Dean’s sure of fucking anything, it’s that this ain’t the work of some overzealous
alligator. No matter what the belly-crawler they’re after wants people to think.

“Alright,” Abby eventually announces, tapping a few final keys on her keyboard. “You’re all set.
I’ve got you two in the Premium Suite.” She tosses his brother a quick wink. “It’s a little more
expensive than what I’ve charged your friend for, but it can be our little secret.”

“Thank you,” Sam says politely. “I’m sure it’ll be perfect.” But there’s an unnecessary warmth in
his tone that leaves Dean unsettled. “If there’s a comment card or anything, I’ll make sure
management knows how adroit you are at your job.”

“Adroit?” she teases, mildly flirtatious in that service industry sort of way. “Wow. I’ll bet you
were a straight-A student, huh?”

Sam ducks his head at the playful jibe, all humble, boyish charm. “Heh, you got me,” he tosses
back innocently enough.

And Dean suddenly can’t stand the saccharine tone the conversation has taken. Who does Sam
think he is, flirting with a civilian like that? Especially when he’s supposed to be taken. By Dean.
“No you weren’t,” he interrupts a little too sharply for his play at cool. “You got a…uh, a C in
science. I remember that.” He rests his elbow on the counter, leaning in to toss Abby a
conspiratorial look. “It was sad, really. He almost cried.”

“It was Astronomy,” Sam corrects him, his voice oddly tight, “and I only got a C before I took the
make-up test.”

“Yeah, and did like an assload of extra-credit.”

“Whatever, Dean. It counts, and it was an A on the final report card.”

Dean lets out a dismissive scoff and pushes back from the desk. “Jeeze,” he says. “Alright, fine.
Far be it from me to besmirch your perfect record or whatever.”

“Besmirch?” Sam repeats dully.

And the condescending tone of his brother’s voice unexpectedly winds up something bitter and
violent in Dean’s gut. “What,” he grits through his teeth, “you’re the only smart one ‘cause of
your stupid, spotless GPA?”

“That’s not what I—” Sam cuts himself off with a sincere sound, then takes a deliberately calming
breath. “I don’t think you’re dumb, Dean.”

“Yeah, I know you don’t,” he shoots back testily.

There’s a brief moment of taut silence, then the concierge awkwardly clears her throat and Dean
flushes at the realization that they’ve just been caught bickering like a couple of teenage girls.
They’re supposed to be on a big romantic getaway or whatever and Sam’s already ruining it with
his stupid need to be right all the damn time. Dean immediately loops his arm through his
brother’s, trying to look like he just wants to cuddle the little bitch instead of throttle him. “Heh,
sorry,” he says. “All that passion’s gotta come out somewhere, right? You know how it is.”

Abby doesn’t seem too fazed by their squabble though. “Nah, it’s pretty cute, actually,” she says
with a professional smile. “You guys have been together a long time, huh?”

“Sometimes it feels like an eternity,” Sam grimaces through his teeth, but he manages to twist it
into a more passable expression when Dean subtly stomps on his toes.

“That’s right,” Dean adds too sweetly. “Time flies when you’re in love. Right, honey?”

“Mm-hmm,” his brother hums tightly, not even moving his lips. His bicep feels like unforgiving
stone under Dean’s too-tight grip.

“Well, I won’t keep you down here for too long then,” Abby says, apparently fooled enough by
their weak pretense to move on to other matters. “You’re in room number four. Second floor, just
to the left of the hallway.” She places two huge, old-school, bronze keys on the desk. Their
handles are molded into frilly little hearts and Dean manfully shoves down his irritation as he
pockets one. “And one last thing,” she adds with a more somber expression. “We are legally
obligated to remind you that the bayous outside the hotel are extremely dangerous. There’s a high
drowning risk, especially for those exploring alone, and we ask that all guests keep within the
borders of the hotel’s property for safety.”

Sam lets out a quiet huff of breath at the required spiel. Dean can only feel it because their sides
are currently glued together, but he gets it. She’s just doing her job. None of these poor saps have
any clue what actually lurks around the edges of their carefully constructed lives. The terrifying
things that really go bump in the night.

“Thank you,” his brother says again, in that same, stupid tone of voice from before, and Dean
grinds his boot heel against his toes one more time for good measure. “We’ll stick to the hotel
grounds,” Sam promises with a strangled sound. Then he jabs one of his pointy elbows into
Dean’s ribs, below the desk where she can’t see.

“Of course. I’ll get the porter to help you with your bags.”

Sam shoves away from him the instant she’s around the corner and out of earshot. “That fucking
hurt, asshole,” he hisses, going up on one leg like an ungainly, overgrown flamingo so that he can
rub at his foot through his shoe.

“So get some boots,” Dean tosses back, unapologetic. His brother’s insistence on wearing flimsy
canvas sneakers all the time is his own damn fault. Some stupid college-boy leftover, like the
collection of brightly colored t-shirts with the weird pictures on the chest that he never used to
wear. Jessica probably picked them all out for him. She must have had crappier taste in clothing
than she did in men.

“I’ll let management know how adroit you are,” he mocks under his breath. “Christ, who talks
like that? If that’s how you flirt, dude, then no wonder you have to have pretend boyfriends.”

“I wasn’t flirting, Dean,” Sam says petulantly. “It was a nice change of pace to have someone at
the front desk that isn’t some creepy greaseball named Odie. I was being friendly.”

“Well if that’s your ‘friendly’, then don’t be surprised when you’ve got a string of unwanted girls
drooling after you, expecting a whole lot more than just friendship.”

Sam lets out an automatic, annoyed scoff. “That isn’t even—” Then he breaks off abruptly, a
confused frown flitting over his face. “Wait, was that a compliment?”

“No, it wasn’t a—” Dean can feel his whole brain stutter to a halt at the unexpected question.
“Why would you think—? I mean, yeah, okay, you’re an attractive guy so, obviously, there’s
gonna be—” He trails to a pathetic stop, even more uncomfortable than before. “Whatever. That
wasn’t the point of that sentence, Sam.”

“You…think I’m attractive?” Sam asks cautiously.

“No,” Dean hisses, violently ignoring the sudden heat blazing from his face. “Jesus. Can we just
move on?” Sam glances at him a few more times out of the corner of his eye, curious and furtive.
Probably wondering exactly when he lost his mind. Dean swallows back his entire point before he
can say something else for Sam to intentionally take the wrong way. “You handle the bags,” he
grumbles. “I’m gonna go…” he waves a vague hand out at the lobby, “…investigate something
else.”

“Yeah, okay,” Sam says quietly. Like he’s somehow been subdued by the insanity of the last few
minutes. And Dean isn’t the type to waste it when he’s been given an out. He stalks out into the
lobby, blatantly ignoring his brother at his back, and shoves his hands into the pockets of his
jacket to keep them from doing anything stupid.

A few more guests have trickled in by now, more than he would have expected for some random
week in May. There’s a clearly-married black couple in their mid-thirties arguing with what must
be a babysitter over the phone, and Dean keeps his distance as the husband tries to grab the cell
from his wife and gets lightly smacked in the gut for his trouble. He then bows out of the way of
what looks like an older Creole woman and her very white husband, finding himself on the
receiving end of an unexpectedly suggestive wink from the wife. Dean shakes it off, probably
more flattered than he should be, and decides to head for the coffee machine, even if it’s probably
full of some dumb flavor like French Vanilla. Though he only gets his cup about a third of the
way full before being interrupted again.

“Josh, no,” he hears an exasperated female voice ring out from behind him. “Oh my god, please
don’t.” Dean shifts around to catch a young blonde woman, saddled with a concerning amount of
luggage, clinging to the denim jacket of what must be her boyfriend.

“Babe,” the guy says, gently slipping her fingers from his sleeve. “Babe, this is important. What if
this is our big break?” He adds one more shoulder bag to the impressive weight she’s already
staggering under and zips off to intercept another hotel guest, flipping what looks like a business
card up between his fingers and then into the older man’s pocket.

“Your big break, you mean,” she mutters under her breath, well after he’s already out of earshot.
She attempts to heave the latest pack onto her shoulder, but it slips against the strap of one of her
many others and goes sliding out of her fingers, heading for the unforgiving tile below. Dean
intervenes in the nick of time, managing to catch the thing one-handed right before it can hit the
floor. “Wow,” the woman breathes out, though she sounds more relieved than impressed. “Thank
you.”

Dean gently places the bag at her feet, less upset over his abandoned coffee and more selfishly
thankful at the opportunity to get his mind off of Sam. “No problem,” he says, using their
proximity to finally give her a more thorough once over. She’s stunning, because of course she is,
now that Dean’s cover forbids him from having any sort of fun. Tan and blonde and just tall
enough to be interesting. “I’m Dean, by the way,” he says, giving her his best bedroom stare. Her
eyes are a darker blue than he’d been expecting.

“Katerina,” she says, shaking his hand. “Kat, actually. If you call me Katerina, I’m gonna think
you’re my mother. And that you’re mad at me.”

Dean laughs expectedly at the joke and jerks his head back at where Denim Jacket had scampered
off to. “So, your boyfriend here on business or something?”

“Fiancé actually,” she corrects him, but there’s a hint of reluctance in her voice. Dean raises an
eyebrow and Kat wilts a little at the gesture, running her left hand through her long hair. “I don’t
exactly have a ring yet because he’s kinda between jobs at the moment.” Ah, that would explain
the reluctance. “He really thinks he’s got something with this new idea though. Something
about…lawnmowers?” she asks, like it’s almost a question directed at him.

Dean tosses her a disarming smile. “Well I have heard great things about lawnmowers,” he says
smoothly—and he gets a pretty, genuine grin for his trouble. He checks her out again, making
careful note of the way Kat flirtatiously tucks some of her hair behind her ear, and steps in a bit
closer. “Tell me,” he says, “how’s a guy between jobs manage to swing a vacation for two at a
fancy joint like this?”

Kat’s grin droops a little as she lets out a tightly controlled sigh, but there’s affection in her voice.
“Josh had been working at his uncle’s company for a steady few months when he sprung the
surprise on me. I actually thought he might finally stay someplace, considering he proposed and
all, but we’d already booked our non-refundable room here when he suddenly quit to focus on his
chauffeuring business.” She clears her throat, pasting her smile back on. “That was the most recent
plan before lawnmowers, by the way,” she adds. “So I’ve basically been keeping us both afloat
until Josh settles on a winning idea. Y’know, a really good one. One worth actual money.”

Dean tries not too look to judgmental. Or too willing to vulture in on the leftovers of her
relationship.

“Wow,” Kat breathes out on a giant exhale, “I’m sorry. Here I am going on and on about my
stupid problems. What about you guys?” She tilts her head to indicate Sam across the room. “I
saw you both chatting with the lady at the desk. How long have you two been together?”

Dean mentally grumbles at having his attention dragged back to the very person he was trying to
avoid, but presses on admirably. “Our whole lives, pretty much,” he says with a shrug, repeating
their chosen backstory. Then he adds the bit he came up with earlier in the car, making sure to
heap a whole glob of honey on top. “Can’t even remember when it started, really. Seems like
we’ve been together forever.”

“Gosh, that’s so sweet,” Kat coos right on cue. And Dean can’t help preening a little at her
reaction. Even when he’s pretending to be gay he’s still got it. She glances up at him and cocks a
hip out, totally on purpose. “And what do you do for a living?”

“Insurance,” he answers simply. “Me and Sam both. It ain’t the most glamorous gig in the world,
but it pays the bills.”

“Wow. Sweet as sugar and a good, steady job? Guess it really is true what they say.” Kat leans in
just a little too far, pouts a little too alluringly for it to be anything but intentional. “All the good
ones play for the other team.”

Dean leans in a bit too, feeding off the temperature of their conversation, then casually stretches an
arm up to rest it on the wood paneling behind her. “Well,” he drawls under his breath, “there’s
always the possibility of you converting me.”

“Dean,” comes a tight, pissy voice from over his shoulder.

Whoops.

Sam looks like every spurned mistress from every revenge movie Dean’s ever seen. “Our bags are
ready,” he says, the way he does when he’s really annoyed. Then he turns his attention to Kat,
fake as all get-out. “Hi,” he says, overly pleasant, “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Sam.” The smile
never leaves his brother’s face, but there’s no disguising that he’s solidly over six feet and
intentionally looming.

“Um, Kat,” she replies. And god bless the poor girl, she manages to hold it together. Dean’s
actually a little proud. And a little turned-on. He very firmly ignores how much of that has to do
with turning the tables on his brother.

“Sorry about my boyfriend here,” Sam says through his teeth, his fingers digging permanent
indents into Dean’s shoulder. “He’s bi,” he explains hastily—probably figuring they’ll need the
cover, given his natural rapport with the ladies—and Dean enjoys the flutter of unhelpful pride in
his chest at the thought. “And a flirt. Ignore him. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“Oh, no,” she lies. “He wasn’t trying anything. We were just talking.”

Dean forces himself not to wince, then leans into the death grip Sam’s got on his deltoid like he
doesn’t mind at all, trying to beat his brother through sheer nonchalance. “Kat here’s engaged to
that guy harassing the old man over there.”

Sam glances over to take in the scene and Kat wilts in embarrassment. It doesn’t look like it’s a
new emotion for her. “He’s just trying to drum up some business.” she explains weakly. “He’s an
entrepreneur.”

“Oh,” Sam says. And then there’s a stretch of uncomfortable silence.

Kat clears her throat before it becomes too painful. “Well, I guess I should let you guys get settled
in. It was nice to meet you, Sam.” She twines her hands through the straps of a few of the bags at
her feet. “Dean.”

Dean lets his brother subtly frog march him over to the elevator, but when he risks a glance back,
Kat’s looking at him too.

“Really, Dean? Really?” Sam hisses under his breath as they step inside. “Ten minutes in and
you’re already trying to blow our cover?”

He shrugs Sam’s hand off him and leans back against the wall to wait. “No one was doing
anything until you came over and tried to cause a huge scene.”

But Sam doesn’t pay any attention to his mumbling, steamrolling right over Dean’s totally valid
point. “Might I remind you that you’re the one who came up with this stupid boyfriend idea in the
first place.”

“It isn’t stupid,” Dean protests automatically. “It’s a genius fucking idea. All my ideas are great.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, rolling his eyes as the elevator dings and shoving him through the doors, “who
could forget how great your rawhead idea turned out?”

Dean jerks back from Sam’s touch like he’s got an electric current running through him. And
damn does he immediately regret that mental imagery given the irony. Talk about too soon. On
both their ends. Inevitably, musings about that week start to shift to musings about Layla, and
Dean rips himself away from that train of thought before his brain can wander down any grim
pathways. He pulls himself back together and very stoically ignores the petty jab. “I was just being
friendly, Prudence,” he says pointedly. “Same way you were with the clerk. Lighten up.”

“She has a boyfriend, Dean,” Sam reminds him. “And so do you, as far as they know. We’re all
here at a couples resort. So no more flirting with the guests.”

Dean briefly considers stringing the fight out, just to be arbitrary—or because of the shitty
rawhead comment—but honestly, the strange, sour feeling in his stomach from before is fading
away now that Sam’s been served a taste of his own medicine. And Kat is engaged, even if she’s
clearly jumping for excuses to get out of it. So Dean uncharacteristically decides to be the bigger
man and lets it go. “Man, you can’t tame this,” he says, a little more lighthearted, giving his
brother a quick nudge to show he’s over it. “Who the hell am I supposed to flirt with then?”

Sam quietly chokes on his own spit, and then Dean’s eyes go wide as he realizes the same thing
his brother must have. “No, I mean, yeah,” he backpedals awkwardly, “Other than… I mean, I
didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, I get it, Dean,” Sam says tensely. “Don’t worry about it.”

They come up on their room in another bout of charged silence. Sam lets Dean unlock the door
without pushing at all, and he privately thanks his lucky stars that at least they’ll be back to normal
once they’re alone. As soon as they’re away from any prying eyes they can get to work without
worrying about any more of this mortifying romance crap.

Or…not.

The door creaks open onto a room plucked straight from one of Dean’s worst nightmares. Or
some terrible Harlequin novel. Same thing, really.

Lacy, white curtains drift lazily in the spring breeze, the gauzy fabric flicking elegantly against the
cork of a chilling champagne bottle—complete with two pristine glass flutes standing at attention
on the white wood of the table. Which is, itself, carved into delicate little curlicues which seem to
end in hearts anyplace they touch. And there are rose petals everywhere. Fucking everywhere. A
fragrant bouquet of velvet red scattered around the champagne bucket, sprinkled over their
luggage in the corner that the bellhop must have dropped off, and leading up to the giant, plush,
pink four-poster bed standing proudly in the center of the room—which looks like some kind of
flower monster has puked the entire contents of its stomach over the bedding. Dean can barely
even make out the hideous color through the solid blanket of petals.

“This is…” Dean trails off. “Fuck.”

But Sam just huffs out a breath through his nose like he finds it funny.

And yeah, okay. He kinda should have expected this. Dean steps warily into the room, letting
Sam close the door behind them. “Your girlfriend gave us the Premium Suite all right,” he tosses
over his shoulder.

“Dude, shut up,” Sam says wearily.

Dean almost trips over a trail of flower petals leading into the bathroom as well, and he doesn’t
even want to think about dealing with that right now. Though at least he doesn’t have to be
entirely sober for it, he thinks, glancing gratefully at the alcohol. Waste not want not, right? Dean
ignores the glasses entirely and heads right for the bottle. Thankfully it’s already cold. He
wrangles the cork out with a sharp tug and a muted pop, waits for it to fizz off a little, then tips the
whole bottle to his lips for a swig. It’s actually pretty good, considering Dean can’t remember the
last time he went for something as pussy as champagne. He makes sure to offer the bottle to Sam
too, out of fairness, but his brother just rolls his eyes and swats his hand away.

“So, what’s the plan?” he asks, carefully shaking the roses off his backpack until it’s free enough
to be handled.

“I dunno,” Dean mumbles, taking another pull from the bottle. “Research, I guess?”

“On the monster or on the hotel?” Sam teases.

Dean relaxes at the easy joke. “Yeah, yeah. Yuk it up all you want, man. You know you’re
dreading this week too.”

Sam pins him with a strange look. One Dean can’t put his finger on. Then he swallows and turns
his attention back to unpacking. “I looked up the amenities online on the way here.” Dean waits
for him to continue, but he doesn’t.

“And?” he prompts.

“And it doesn’t seem too terrible,” Sam says without looking up. “The complimentary champagne
you’ve already found.” He tilts his head back toward the table. “There’s a couple’s massage, a
horse-drawn carriage ride around the grounds, a private dinner in the gardens out back, and a jazz
performance in the lounge. I think that’s it. Not too bad.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees.

But Sam doesn’t say anything more, conversation apparently over. He just continues to transfer
his clothes from his backpack to the room’s oversized dresser. The way they never do.

“Hey,” Dean says, starting to actually get worried now. “We’re good. Right, Sam?”

The pause is only slightly too long. “Yeah, Dean,” he says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach
his eyes. “Of course we’re good.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“What’s the point of a romantic getaway if we have to spend it chatting with the Joneses about
their stupid mortgages or whatever?”

Sam gives him a look like he doesn’t want to engage. “I think it’s like a bed-and-breakfast type
thing.”
“Except it’s dinner?” Dean feels the technical need to point out.

His brother lets out a sigh that sounds only slightly less annoyed than Dean feels. “Dude, I don’t
know. It’s probably one of those hokey ‘the community is part of the experience’ deals.”

The elevator arrives at their floor with a ding and Dean extends a hand out between the doors,
letting Sam walk in first. “I’m just saying. You pay more, you should be able to avoid people.”

“And how are we gonna figure out who we’re looking for if we’re avoiding everybody?” Sam
asks pointedly, jabbing the button for the lobby a little harder than he needs to.

“The old-fashioned way,” Dean says with a contemptuous sniff. “We catch one of them doing
something suspicious and then rough ‘em up until we get some answers.” He tosses him a roguish
quirk of his head. “Easy as pie.”

“Now you sound like Dad.”

“Good.”

“Jesus, Dean,” his brother lets out on a breath. Then he steps away from him to lean against the far
wall, defensively crossing his arms over his chest.

Dean gets caught up in watching the play of tendons shifting over the back of Sam’s hands for a
second. “I’m just saying,” he continues eventually, “there are better uses of our time.”

“Except we haven’t found anything at all yet and we had all afternoon.”

He lets out a self-amused chuckle at the impressive sulk his brother’s got going on. “Yeah, well, it
ain’t my fault your computer-fu is lacking today.”

The elevators doors choose to open again at that exact moment, the perfect punctuation to his jibe,
and Dean grins. Almost like he’d rehearsed it.

Sam pulls in a measured inhale like it’s all he can do to remain civil. Dean silently chalks it up as a
win. “At least we know the pattern of disappearances,” his brother says, stepping onto the first
floor. “That isn’t nothing.”

Yeah. But it isn’t really something either. One or two people have gone missing every year for the
past decade, sometimes male, sometimes female, and usually in the spring. It’s all they’ve got to
go on.

“We’ve still got a whole week, Dean,” Sam reminds him gently. He keeps his voice quiet enough
that no one is likely to overhear. “And maybe we can fill in some blanks tonight.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean falls into place at Sam’s side as they head for the dining area, their strides
effortlessly in sync like they almost always are. It had been one of the very first things to filter
back in after Sam’s little sabbatical.

When one of the hotel’s bellhops had shown up at their door a little while ago, Dean expected that
they’d shoo the guy off and that would be that, but the chipper fucker turned out to be annoyingly
insistent about them taking advantage of some non-optional dinner as part of their prepaid
package. Dude wouldn’t take ‘fuck off’ for an answer, so here they are. Dean’s just planning on
shoving as much food in his face as will fit and suffering through the rest of it as quick as humanly
possible.

Sam chuckles privately under his breath, like he can’t help himself. Probably enjoying Dean’s
misery. The bastard. “Y’know, we probably could have filled in a few more blanks if you didn’t
insist on dragging your damn feet and making us almost an hour late.”

“This is my romantic vacation time, Sammy,” Dean reminds him facetiously. “I answer to no pre-
printed schedule.”

“Except you know we’re not actually here on vacation, right?”

“Tom-ay-to, tom-ah-to.”

“No,” Sam insists dryly. “Tomato, eggplant. We’re working.”

They come up on the dining room before Dean can roll his eyes at his brother’s dumb wordplay.
It’s smaller than he would have expected, but nicer than they’re used to, with dark blue rugs
carpeting the space and matching décor papering the walls.

“Huh,” he says. “Cozy.”

Six pairs of eyes all blink up at them from where the rest of the guests are arranged around a long,
oak table. He and Sam must have intruded right in the middle of a conversation, given the
noticeable lull at their arrival, but none of them seem to be too bothered by it as they make their
way across the room. There are two empty places set right at the table’s edge and Dean does his
best to curtail a wince at the wholesomeness of it all.

“Um, sorry we’re late,” Sam apologizes belatedly. And that at least seems to break the dam on the
silence.

“This is the boy I was telling you about,” the older woman Dean almost ran into in the lobby
earlier gossips to her husband in a thick French accent. He was right. Creole. “The pretty one,”
she says, with no attempt at furtive whatsoever.

Dean tries not to preen at the compliment, feeling a little better already, but given the way Sam
practically shoves him into his seat, he must have been too obvious about it. He does pretend the
stumble is his own fault though, using the ruse as a cover to make a quick sweep of the gathered
guests.

Apparently, the only people staying here are the three couples he’d run across at check-in, and
Dean begrudgingly wonders if they’d still be forced into this ‘friendly neighbor’ bullshit if more
people had booked rooms. The guy directly in front of him is the one he’d seen bickering with his
wife over their babysitter, but he seems to be in a pleasant enough mood now. Mid, maybe late
thirties, now that Dean’s got a good look at him, with a surprisingly strong build and an open,
friendly kind of face. His wife’s to his left, her hair in a weave of complicated twists piled together
in a fancy updo. Past Sam to his right is the older lady with the overactive libido and her husband.
And then across from them is Kat’s deadbeat fiancé, looking just as petulant and bored as Dean
feels, with Kat herself rounding off the group at the far edge of the table.

It’s probably mostly just bad luck that has Dean sitting the farthest away from the one person here
he’d like to get to know better, but he’s also pretty sure that he’s not imagining the slight droop of
her shoulders at the arrangement. Like maybe she’s disappointed about it too. He tosses Kat a
subtle wink, just to make sure, and the schooled expression of pleasure he gets in response is proof
enough for him.

“So,” Dean says, rubbing his hands together cheerily. “Where’s the beef?”

Other than he and Sam, the rest of them are all working on fancy steak dinners—which means
they probably must have missed a few courses. All except for Babysitter Wife, that is, who’s
delicately picking at some kind of elaborate salad. The waiter comes around almost immediately to
take their order and he half expects Sam to go for the rabbit food too. He even tosses together a
couple of appropriately needling insults, just in case, but his brother picks the steak, same as him.
Though he does order it blue-rare, the savage.

Creole Grandma doesn’t even wait for the waiter to step away before she starts back up with the
overly aggressive flirtation. “Nice to meet you, cher,” she says warmly, reaching over Sam to
meet him for an enthusiastic handshake. “I’m Estelle. And this is mon mari, Simon.”

“That’s ‘husband’ in case you were wondering,” the man to her right explains. Jolly is probably
the most accurate term Dean can think of for the guy. He’s just round enough in the middle to
look pleasant, and although clearly not British, he’s still got that affected almost accent that seems
to mostly be the domain of pretentious would-be academics and the obscenely rich. The quality of
his clothing hints toward the latter. “My darling Estelle doesn’t realize which language she’s
speaking sometimes. Isn’t it fetching?”

“Or confusing,” Dean says with a tight smile. Sam kicks him under the table.

“I’m Sam,” his brother says, loud enough to cover the grunt of pain, “and this is my—Dean.” No
one else seems to catch the almost slip, but Dean shoots him a warning look anyway.

Estelle blithely continues on with the introductions, seizing control of the conversation. “That
young lady on the end there is Katerina, which you know already,” she whispers conspiratorially.
“She mentioned you’d met in the lobby. That’s her fiancé, Josh, next to her. And this is—”

The final woman interrupts her with an outstretched palm. “I’m Vivian,” she says, clearly not the
type to let others speak for her, “and this is my husband, Beau.”

Sam nods politely at both and Estelle twists back to face them, undeterred. “I was just telling him
before you arrived that it means ‘handsome’.”

Beau shifts in his seat at the praise, a broad, satisfied grin spreading over his face. “Estelle is my
new best friend,” he explains proudly.

“Well who else’s gonna take care of you when your maman’s not here?” She flicks a dismissive
hand at the compliment and, introductions finished, goes back to her food.

Beau, though, seems to take the question to heart, risking an unsure glance between Vivian’s
unimpressed expression and Estelle’s old-fashioned certainty. “Um…my wife?” he ventures
hesitantly.

The unladylike snort Vivian lets out in response is anything but old-fashioned. “I’m sorry, who’s
doing what now?” she asks flatly, and Dean decides right then and there that he likes her.

“You guys get a small nation’s supply of roses in your room?” he teases the couple. “Because
Sam and I can spare a few thousand if you’re looking to be let out of that doghouse anytime
soon.”

Sam quickly twists his face to the side, trying to hide his amused smirk, but Dean catches it
anyway. Bolstered, he presses his luck by curling a hand into the mop of his hair. “That is, if he’s
willing to share,” he says, giving him an affectionate little shake.

His brother twitches out of his hold, saved from having to respond by the arrival of their meals,
and Dean almost lets out a tear over the gorgeous slab of meat set in front of him. New York cut,
it looks like, and when he slices into it it’s thick and medium-rare and perfect. He’s already got
one piece in his mouth, moaning at the taste, and is working on carving off a second before Sam
even gets his fork in his hand. The waiter stops by again to pour them both some kind of red wine
and Dean almost raises his hand to ask for a beer instead, but Sam discreetly places his own
fingers over Dean’s and pushes them back down again. Dean rolls his eyes at the shallow shake of
his brother’s head, but acquiesces anyway. At least he looks just as uncomfortable with it as Dean
does, blinking at the wine in front of him like he wouldn’t know how to begin to tell if it’s good or
not.

Dean decides to go for broke in the other direction and wraps his fist around the stem of his glass
to toss back a sizeable swig. Liquor is liquor is liquor, after all.

“So Dean, Sam,” Beau says with two respective tilts of his head, “you from around here?”

“Uh, no,” Sam says, swallowing the bite he was working on. “We’re from…” He pauses for a
second, pretending to take a sip of his own wine, and glances at Dean for an assist. Probably
already forgot the city name, even after the dumb fuss he made about it in the car.

“Alamosa,” Dean says, trying not to feel too smug about the rescue. “Colorado.”

“Josh grew up in Montrose,” Kat says helpfully. “That’s close by. Right, babe?”

Josh barely even grunts in response, and Dean starts to get the feeling that the guy might be kind
of a dick.

Simon hums a little in politeness from the far end of the table. “You boys are a long way from
home.”

“Well, our work takes us all over,” Sam recites automatically, the standard line their dad had
drilled into their heads from childhood. Vague and trite—the most boring kind of explanation, and
therefore the most useful.

Beau nods pleasantly. “And what work would that be?”

“Insurance,” Kat answers for them, not even thinking twice. Then she falters a little at the amount
of curious eyes on her. “Dean, uh, mentioned it, earlier.”

Sam flicks his eyes between the two of them, then clears his throat. “Um, yeah,” he says. “That’s
right.”

“Well that must be fun,” Estelle prods, a cheerful smile on her face like she’s having the time of
her life. “Getting to work together like that.”

Dean revels a little bit in actually being able to answer that question. “Pros outweigh the cons,” he
jokes, tossing a covert glance at his brother. Sam rolls his eyes like it’s an old bit, but nurtures a
private little smile of his own.

“So you two, uh…” Josh blurts out, looking more uncomfortable than anything else. It’s the first
thing he’s said all evening and Dean starts entertaining the idea that this guy might be even more
of a dick than he’d first assumed.

He shoots him a blank look. “We what?”

“You guys are like…a thing?”

The question’s an obvious one—one he not only expected to hear, but literally prepared for—and
yet the frank enormity of it laid out like that still rattles Dean a bit. “Yup,” he says too casually,
ignoring the way the lie spikes at him somewhere deep and guilty.
“And which one of you…y’know?” Dean just raises an eyebrow. “Y’know,” Josh says again,
resting his elbow on the table and tilting his head suggestively. “Y’know?”

Oh.

“He’s the catcher, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Dean!” Sam sputters out, sounding so scandalized that you’d think Dean had just said something
that everyone hadn’t probably already assumed. He’d mention something to that effect out loud,
but his brother might actually melt under the table.

“Okay,” Vivian announces loudly, clearly on Sam’s side here. “Why don’t we talk about
something else?”

“Hey, man, I was just asking.”

“Josh, please shut up,” Kat begs quietly.

Dean gives Sam a quick, silent check-in, starting to worry that maybe he went a little too far, but
his brother looks far more pissed than embarrassed.

“Don’t take it personally, Sam,” Vivian says to him from across the table, reaching out to rest her
hand on his. It’s politely compassionate—motherly, even—but Dean still pointedly stares at her
fingers until she slips them away. Sam drops his own back into his lap as well, giving him a weird
look the entire time, but Vivian doesn’t seem to be offended. “It’s just that we already tread all of
our ‘getting-to-know-you’ stuff into the ground before you two got here,” she explains, trying to
save the mood. “You know how folks are with anything new and shiny.”

“Why don’t you boys tell us about how you met?” Simon offers, piggy-backing onto Vivian’s
reprieve. “That’s suitable enough for the dinner table.” He fiddles with his fork as he obviously
gears up for a story, most of his attention back on his mashed potatoes. “Estelle was attending
Tulane University where I, myself, was an adjunct professor back in the 70s.” Ah—Dean silently
reassesses—obscenely rich and a pretentious academic. “She first asked me to dinner after one of
my lectures on the Ancient Architecture of the Incan Empire. She was an enchantingly forward
little thing, even back then,” he reminisces fondly. “And Vivian and Beau told us a lovely story
about meeting while on separate vacations to this very town.”

“And what about you, Kat?” Dean asks when Simon seems to be finished. “How’d you meet—
I’m sorry, was it Jeff?”

“Josh,” Josh says coolly. Then he seems to intentionally loosen himself up a little, throwing an
arm over Kat’s shoulders as he leans back in his chair. “She came to watch my band play. The rest
is history, man.”

“He’s really good,” Kat says, a little restrained. She seems content to leave it at that for a moment,
but the expectation of a give-and-take must get to her because she eventually returns the question,
a little awkwardly, to Sam. “How about you two?”

Sam blinks a bit, like he’s surprised she’s talking to him, but relays their prepared backstory.
“We’ve known each other most of our lives, actually. We, uh, kinda grew up together, but we
didn’t—” he falters so slightly that no one but Dean would catch it, “um, date until high school.”

“Oh, listen to that, Simon,” Estelle gushes. “Isn’t that romantic? So you were each other’s first
relationship?”
Sam starts to nod his head, opening his mouth to confirm her statement just as Dean loudly
contradicts him.

“I actually did pretty well for myself before Sammy here,” he says. Because what’s the point of a
balls-out lie if you can’t be at least a little honest? Sam twitches beside him, probably resisting the
urge to whip his head around and glare at him, but not wanting to draw suspicion. “Yup,” Dean
continues smugly, ignoring his brother. “Probably could even call me a bit of a ladies’ man.”

“Ladies? Really?” Estelle asks guilelessly, just as Sam kicks him under the table again.

“It was high school,” he says, tight and controlled, steering them closer to something believable.
“He isn’t as impressive as he thinks he is.”

Dean lets out a scoff and tosses a spare piece of steak into his mouth with his fingers, ignoring
Sam’s look of embarrassment at the action. Whatever. Like he’s too good for that shit. A few years
of fancy schooling and all of a sudden Sam thinks he’s the goddamn pope. He’s half-inclined to
wipe his fingers on his brother’s jeans under the table, just to push it, but an absent-minded glance
around the room stops him cold. Every one of the couples they’re eating with is intimately
touching in some way. It looks natural. Effortless. Even Josh has still got a casual arm around
Kat’s lower back. If Sam twitches uncomfortably away from him one more time during this
dinner, it might actually start to arouse suspicion. They have to do a better job of fitting in.

“I don’t miss it though,” Dean says instead, and maybe it’s even a little close to the truth. Sam
goes completely still next to him at the words, probably blindsided by the unexpected sweetness,
but Dean just slips his own hand high onto Sam’s thigh. “What I’ve got now is worth it,” he says
softly—all just part of the act.

But Dean could find some thread of commonality in the words if he wanted to. After all, he’d had
nothing but freedom while Sam was away at school. Freedom to invite as many girls as he wanted
to the single bed in his motel room. Freedom to crank up Led Zeppelin II without anyone nagging
at him about how loud he was playing his tapes. Even freedom from Dad, more and more, as he’d
slowly started to let him take solo hunts. It was just him and the open road and long, lonely
stretches of time where he’d had nothing but that same music to keep him company.

Looking back on it, Dean doesn’t think he’s ever really been one for freedom.

Estelle coos again, so easily drawn in by their cliché display, but Sam just gives him one of his oh-
so-sincere soft eyed looks—not that he’d missed them or anything. Like maybe he somehow
knows what Dean was just thinking. Or maybe he’s pleased to take whatever flattery he can get,
rare as it is.

Dean shoves down another misplaced flicker of guilt and turns back to the table, but he leaves his
right hand on his brother’s leg.

Although, maybe he does use the closeness to wipe a little of the steak grease off on Sam’s jeans

“And what about you, Sam?” Beau asks conversationally, cutting the remaining bite-size pieces of
his meat into even smaller bite-size pieces. “No long-lost loves crying into their pillows about you
ending up with Dean?”

Sam stiffens in his seat—not obviously—not to anyone who doesn’t know him inside and out, but
Dean does. And he knows exactly what’s got his brother tenser than a witch at a bonfire. Jessica
doesn’t fit in with the backstory they’d constructed. There’s no way for Sam to work her into their
fabricated past, but he can’t denounce her either. Of course he can’t. Not this soon after. Even if
it’s just a lie.
Sam’s breathing starts to get just a little quicker, silently rocking through his arm where they’re
pressed together tight.

“Hey, y’know what?” Dean says brightly, changing the subject as smoothly as he can. “I’ll bet
there were plenty of broken hearts crying over Vivian here when you two got hitched.”

“Well,” Beau concedes grudgingly, “maybe one or two.”

“Or twenty,” she corrects him with a teasing glint in her eye. Both Kat and Estelle let out audible
huffs of laughter at that, and Beau hunches down a bit, appropriately cowed.

“I know the guy who fixed our roof had a thing for you,” he grumbles a little bitterly. “Gave us an
extra twenty percent off just because you smiled at him.”

Josh suddenly sits up in his seat, the first glimmer of emotion he’s shown the whole meal. “Wait,”
he says. “You’re a homeowner? That must mean you’ve got a lawn out front, right?”

“Well, yeah,” Beau answers uncertainly. “What kind of house doesn’t have a lawn?”

Josh lights up like he’s just won the Powerball. “My friend, do I have a bargain for you,” he
announces smarmily, grabbing another one of his business cards out of his jacket pocket.

“Oh my god, Josh,” Kat sighs, dropping her face into her hands.

“How many times has this happened to you? You go to mow your grass, right, but the damn
mower won’t start. And then what are you gonna do? Replace the battery? Lug the thing all the
way to a repair shop?” He flips his card up into Beau’s face, grinning like he thinks his two-bit
prestidigitation is impressive. “No way, man. I’ll tell you what you do, you get yourself a solar-
powered lawnmower. Never runs out of battery because the battery is the freaking sun, my
friend.”

“Beau, we don’t need a new lawnmower.”

“Hold on, Viv,” he says, bringing the card a little closer so he can read it better. “Let’s hear the
man out.”

Vivian turns her overdramatically desperate gaze on his brother, like she’s pleading for Sam to
share in her misery. “He just buys stupid crap,” she says under her breath. “All the time.”

“Dean once showed up with a Magic Bullet,” Sam commiserates way too instantly. The traitor.
“We don’t even cook.”

She laughs out loud. “We have a vacuum-seal attachment for freeze-drying clothing in little bags,”
she one-ups him easily. “Clothing.”

Sam raises a confused eyebrow, then starts laughing too, tilting his head in surrender to the
competition.

“Hey, my Magic Bullet was awesome,” Dean says, intent on defending his honor. Plus, he hadn’t
bought it. He’d shoplifted it. Pretty sizeable difference in his book. “That fucker blended
anything.” He’d also graciously left it behind in a motel in Allentown because Sam wouldn’t stop
whining about it.

“Meat should not be a smoothie, Dean,” his brother groans with all the weariness of the world on
his shoulders.
Dean lets out a scoff. “Says you,” he tosses back. They’ve already had this argument about a
dozen times over the last month. No one’s won yet.

“Well this has got to be a rare treat for you then, eh?” Simon butts in. “A nice dinner like this?”

Dean grunts in reluctant agreement, going back to his poor, neglected steak, but Sam takes the bait
after another sip of wine. “I take it it’s not so rare for you?” he asks evenly.

“Oh, Estelle’s a marvelous chef,” Simon says, like he’s just been waiting for the right moment to
bring it up. “The things this woman can do in the kitchen. Puts our live-in cook to shame.”

“It’s just nice for us to come here so I don’t have to,” she teases, playfully nudging at her
husband’s shoulder.

Sam grants him a look, Dean shrugs in response, and they mutually choose to let the apparent
lavishness of their lives pass without comment.

“Well, I can’t cook for shit, pardon my language,” Vivian jokes, “so I appreciate the food every
time we’re here.”

Dean pauses, another bite halfway up to his mouth. “You guys have been here before?”

“Of course,” Beau says, returning to the conversation, apparently having pocketed Josh’s business
card given the look of victory on the other guy’s face. “We come up here every single year.”

“Oh, really?” Sam asks, deliberately casual. “Always in the spring like this?”

Vivian nods. “Almost always,” she says. “It’s the only time we have free while our son’s still in
daycare.” Then she seems to realize something, lightly smacking the back of Beau’s arm. “No,
wait. We were here once for Christmas, right, baby? When was that?”

“Four or five years ago,” Beau answers through a mouthful of green beans.

The conversation mostly peters off into banalities after that, and Dean uses the inattention to get an
arm up over the back of Sam’s chair, leaning in close to whisper in his ear and hoping it comes
across as an intimate flirtation. “That Kent couple, the one from Mississippi,” he says quietly.
“They went missing in December, right? They were the only ones to break the pattern?” Sam
nods his head with an affirmative hum, casually glancing over the rest of the guests like nothing is
awry. “What year was that?”

“2001,” Sam says discreetly into his wine glass.

Dean gives Sam’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze as he shifts away again, like they weren’t
chatting about anything important. At least they have a lead now—Dean thinks as he goes back to
his meal. He can’t say this whole dinner was a complete waste of time after all.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“They were nice,” Sam says later, his voice carrying through the open doorway as he gets ready
for bed in the main room behind him.

Dean just lets out a foamy, mint-flavored scoff. “They were nosy,” he corrects him with a wag of
his toothbrush. “You don’t go poking around strangers’ business like that.”

“We do. All the time.”

“Yeah, Sam,” he argues dryly. “Except we actually have a good reason for it.”

Sam crouches down to plug the laptop in, probably rolling his eyes as he does so. “It’s called
being polite. It’s what normal people do.”

“Normal,” Dean snarks under his breath, and he can see his brother’s hands clench into fists
through his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He regrets it almost immediately, but not enough to
actually take it back. ‘Normal’. It’s one of their stupid buzzwords. Like ‘California’ or ‘freak’ or
‘Dad’. One of their too-charged metaphorical landmines, absolutely guaranteed to start an
argument or your money back.

“What’s wrong with normal?” Sam asks tensely, his tone deliberately even.

“Dude,” Dean sighs, turning around to face him properly, but the motion sends some of the foam
flying from his mouth and now he’s got toothpaste all over himself. He lets out a groan and spits
the rest of it into the sink, then steps back into the bedroom proper. “Not everyone is into your
white picket fence crap,” he says testily, his amulet thunking against his sternum as he whips his t-
shirt off and uses it to wipe his face. Sam doesn’t respond at all, gaze fixed on his chest, acting all
weird and pissed and silent. “What, Sam?”

His brother skitters his eyes away. “Nothing.”

It’s unfair, really—and yeah, okay, maybe that’s a pretty shitty thing to think—but Sam’s bitchy
mood swings now are the exact same bitchy mood swings he’d had before he left. The only
difference is that Dean can’t call him on it because he’s still grieving or whatever. Not that Dean
has any clue what the mourning period for demons killing your girlfriend is. For their dad it’s been
coming up on twenty-three years. There’s no way in hell Dean is giving Sam that long of a leash.

He takes a deep breath, mentally chastises himself for the inconsiderate bent of his thoughts, then
focuses on being understanding and sympathetic. “Look,” he says softly, “the normal, polite,
small talk ended up being a good thing, right? At least we have a lead.” He waits for Sam to
shallowly nod before continuing. “So, you think it’s both of them?”

“Could be,” his brother says, cagey. Then he turns away to sort through his backpack for his
bathroom stuff. “Or it could be just one,” he tosses over his shoulder. “No way to tell yet.” Yeah,
of course Sam’s gonna be intent on protecting his new friend. Though Dean can’t say he’s overly
suspicious of Vivian either.

“She was a vegetarian,” he mentions, knowing that Sam knows exactly who he’s talking about.
“You pick up on that?”

“Yeah.”

It doesn’t mean anything for sure, the whole hippie thing might even be a ruse to throw people off,
but Dean’s willing to focus on her husband for now. He watches the broody shifting of Sam’s
shoulders long enough for a shiver to run over his naked skin and remind him that he’s still
shirtless, so he unglues his feet from the floor and heads over to his own stuff. Sam unfolds
himself back upright and makes for the bathroom just as Dean finishes yanking a clean t-shirt from
his bag over his head.

“You going to bed already?” Sam asks in mild surprise.

“Might as well get a good night’s sleep,” he says, muffled by the fabric until he pops his head
through the neck hole. “We don’t wanna blow our cover this early on by sneaking around
somewhere we’re not supposed to be.” Dean scritches a hand over the back of his neck and lets
out a yawn. “Like you said, we’ve got all week. We can scan for the usual stuff tomorrow, after
our—what is it?”

“Couple’s massage,” Sam says listlessly.

Couple’s massage. Right. Dean lets the nauseating schmaltz of it weigh him down for a second,
then tries to look on the bright side of things. “Y’know,” he starts optimistically, “that could
actually be kinda fun. Get rid of some of my pent-up tension, if you know what I mean.” He
throws in a suggestive click of his tongue just in case Sam doesn’t.

His brother doesn’t move from his spot as he eyes him skeptically, his soaps and bottles still
balanced in his hands. “You know it’s not that kind of massage, right?”

“Whaddya mean?”

Sam snorts derisively at him. “This is a classy hotel, Dean,” he says, all superior and obnoxious.
“You’re not gonna get a friggin’ happy ending.”

“Well why the hell not? If you’re paying that much more for it, you should be getting your
money’s worth.” He reaches his arms up until his back cracks, then cuts the kid a sideways
glance. “The cost of this place, I should be getting two orgasms. Maybe three.”

“You’ve got a right hand,” Sam reminds him.

Dean grins at the challenge. Poor Sammy never knowing exactly what he’s walked into. “Aw,
c’mon, baby,” he purrs, intentionally sleazy. “You know it ain’t nearly as much fun unless
someone else is doing it for you.”

Sam stammers out a nervous cough, the absolute prude, and Dean fluffs up his own feathers a
little for still being able to rile up his little brother so damn easily. He’s not even sure why it’s so
ridiculously fun, but fuck him if it isn’t one of the great joys in his life. Causes that warm feeling in
his chest to go all smug and glowy.

“So,” he says, still mentally strutting a little bit over his win, “how are we gonna do this?”

“Do what?” Sam asks, taking the excuse of stepping in and out of the bathroom to get a grip on
himself. When he comes back out, his arms are free of toiletries.

Dean’s brow knits up. “The—this.” He waves a hand over the giant bed dwarfing their room.
“The whole bed thing, man.” Because the blankets may be egregiously pink, but the thing still
looks damn comfortable, and Dean knows from years of experience how not-fun taking your turn
on the floor is.

Sam just stares at his outstretched hand for a minute, then awkwardly shifts on his feet. “Oh,” he
says. But the way he says it is weird. It isn’t just an ‘oh,’ like ‘hmm, good point, I didn’t think of
that’. It’s an ‘oh’. Like an ‘I didn’t expect you to bring it up’ kind of ‘oh’. Which is weird. “You
wanna trade off?” Sam offers after a moment, suddenly back to acting perfectly normal again.

Dean gives his brother a long, curious look. “Yeah,” he says.

And his response isn’t weird. It’s just a ‘yeah’.

But Dean’s been dealing with Sam’s odd idiosyncrasies for roughly twenty years now, and one
semi-strange reaction isn’t enough to stall him for more than a second. He scans his gaze over the
three thousand thread count sheets and billowy feather down blankets and dies a little inside. “You
wanna go first?” he asks, because he’s a good big brother.

But Sam fixes him with such an exasperated look of affection that Dean thinks he might actually
have been drooling. “Nah,” he says, “you go ahead. I’ve still got some stuff to do on the computer
anyway.”

“Hey, man, if you’re sure,” Dean crows brightly, but he’s already plopped down on the mattress
and relaxing into the luxurious covers. No magic fingers though. You’d think rich people would
know how to live, but whatever. He tugs off one of the blankets from underneath him, then balls it
up and tosses it plus a couple pillows at Sam’s chest. A flutter of slightly bruised rose petals follow
the movement and his brother ends up scraping more off his face than still remain on the actual
bed—to Dean’s great pleasure.

He settles in, more cozy than he probably has any right to be, and starts thinking about maybe
drifting off to sleep when Sam starts whining again.

“Dude, c’mon,” he calls out from the bathroom. “Put the damn cap back on the toothpaste or it’ll
dry out.”

“Wah, wah, wah,” Dean mocks under his breath, quiet enough that he knows Sam can’t hear it.

The sound of running water starts up and Dean lets out a put-upon sigh. There’s still a fair amount
of rose petals littering the covers he’s lying on top of, but he doesn’t exactly want to move. He
grabs a handful out of curiosity and brings them up to his face to sniff. They smell kinda nice
actually, so he lazily decides to just make himself comfortable without bothering to sweep them
onto the floor. The maids will probably get it tomorrow anyway.

The water eventually shuts off again and he can hear the muted slap of his brother’s bare feet as he
finishes in the bathroom. The footsteps cut off as he steps back out onto the carpet. “Dude, you are
so weird,” Sam says, almost fondly from where he’s leaning against the doorway.

“Takes one to know one,” Dean mumbles back, but he doesn’t really have the energy to sell it.

Sam rolls his eyes again, playful this time, and pushes away from the doorframe so he can slip his
own shirt over his head. He bends over, resting a hand on the edge of the dresser as he searches
through the drawers for something to sleep in.

Dean idly watches the curve of his brother’s broad back twist and stretch until his eyelids finally
grow heavy.
 Tuesday

“What’s with the body art?” Dean asks over breakfast the next morning, gesturing to the
noticeable red mark adorning the larger part of his brother’s forehead.

“Nightmare,” Sam answers, rubbing at the spot a little self-consciously as he tries to cover it with
his bangs. “Jerked awake and cracked my head on the leg of the armchair.”

“You okay?”

Sam makes a face. “Dude, c’mon. It’s nothing.” He pokes at his fruit plate with his fork for a little
bit, but doesn’t actually eat anything. They’ve got room service for practically the first time in their
entire lives and here Sam is, wasting it.

“Folks downstairs are gonna be wondering if I’m smacking you around,” Dean says lightly, but
his mind is on his brother’s lack of appetite.

“What, you don’t think they’ll buy that I walked into a door?”

Dean shoves over an extra croissant and glares at his brother until he puts the damn thing in his
mouth. “Seriously though, Sammy,” he says, keeping his eyes on his own plate as if that’ll stop
the conversation from becoming too heavy. “Your nightmares getting too bad?”

“They’re not getting anything, Dean,” Sam mumbles around his bread. “They just are.”

He takes a sip of his coffee—chicory—and worries while he runs his tongue over the oily film
clinging to his teeth. It’s a little sweeter than Dean usually prefers, but fuck, that’s what you do
when you’re in Louisiana. It’d be like stopping by Chicago and not having any of the deep dish.

“Why don’t you take the bed for the rest of the week?” he offers after another few minutes of
watching his brother very casually try to pretend that his continuing night terrors aren’t affecting
him. “I’m fine on the floor.”

“Dean, no. You don't have to do that. Plus, I was on that floor last night. It’s terrible.” Sam
glances up to meet his gaze, his undereyes only slightly purple. “I’m fine,” he says with a earnest
sort of finality. “I promise.” And Dean knows he can’t prod any more without pissing Sam off.

A comfortable silence descends over the both of them, problem tabled for now on Sam’s end,
even if Dean’s secretly not ready to let it go yet. “I’m gonna tell them you conked your skull on
the headboard,” he says eventually, scooping up another bite of dripping sausage.

“What? Why?”

Dean doesn’t answer him, letting a fond smile flirt around the corners of his mouth as he focuses
on his biscuits and gravy. Sam will figure it out by the time they get down to the lobby.

Or the elevator, as it turns out. When his brother suddenly spits out a hasty, “No, Dean, don’t tell
them that,” right before they reach their floor. Dean steps out in the lobby laughing, and Sam has
to punch him in the shoulder twice just to get him to stop.

“Careful, Sammy,” he warns, still shaking off his residual amusement. “You don’t want anyone
getting the wrong idea.”

“I’m the one with the giant bruise,” Sam says, all grouchy and sullen.
It’s a fair point, but Dean’s not ready to let go of the bantering yet. “Maybe they’ll just think we’re
secretly part of a fight club.”

Sam lets out a dismissive little laugh, quiet enough that he’s probably reining it in. Trying not to let
Dean know how much of an effect he has on him. Yeah, right. Dean already knows he’s friggin’
hilarious.

Only Estelle and Simon are in the dining room when they get there, contentedly grazing at the
breakfast buffet the hotel has laid out. Most of the younger crowd is probably still asleep upstairs,
meaning they’ll be able to get some useful questioning in, but that they’re gonna have to do it all
over again with the other four. Which isn’t exactly time-efficient. Dean puts on his game face and
strides over to the couple with a painfully fake smile, Sam trailing half a step behind.

His brother can’t linger behind his shoulder forever though, and when he steps up beside him to
pull out a chair, Estelle sucks in a sharp breath over her omelet.

“What happened to your head, cher?” she coos sympathetically at Sam the moment they sit down.

“Uh, nothing,” he says. “Just an accident.”

“Headboard,” Dean mouths silently when his brother isn’t looking, but by the time Sam whirls
around to glare at him, his lips are innocently sealed.

Estelle just gives the both of them a knowing look. “Simon and I broke a vase once,” she says
conspiratorially.

“It was a Ming, darling,” Simon says as he joins them. He sets his plate down and takes a seat
himself, fixing his wife with a nostalgic smile as he proceeds to pull arbitrary chunks out of a large
blueberry muffin. “And it was your father’s.”

“Daddy didn’t speak to him for three years after that,” she finishes with a surprisingly youthful
giggle.

“Well,” Sam says stiffly, gesturing up at his head, “this was just an accident.”

“Of course it was, honey,” Dean agrees, rubbing a soothing hand over his brother’s back.

Sam twitches, but he can’t shrug him off without blowing their cover, so he’s forced to submit to
the pawing. Dean smiles a smug little smile to himself as he rubs at the tense muscles. And it’s
kinda nice actually, getting Sam under his hands. It feels good in that vague, contented sort of way
he sometimes gets around his brother. Knowing that he’s solid and safe and right next to him.

“Hey, so, speaking of accidents,” Dean directs to the older couple, glancing around like he doesn’t
want any of the staff to overhear. He lowers his voice by half just to add drama. “Did you hear
about the people that have gone missing from here?”

Estelle’s eyes widen at the words and she grabs onto Simon’s arm with a gossipy sort of
excitement. “Is that true?” she asks, hushed and clandestine.

“That’s what we heard,” Sam says, clearly having given up on escaping considering how he’s just
leaning into Dean’s ministrations now. “Dean was saying he thinks this place might be haunted.”

“Des fantômes,” she gasps.

Simon pleasantly pats the hand she’s got on his arm. “Darling, there’s no such thing.”
“I dunno, man,” Dean shrugs. “Sammy and I were thinking of checking around the place. See if
we can spot anything spooky.” He can feel Sam laugh silently under his hands, and he squeezes
tighter to get him to shut up. He can’t have his brother blowing things for him, especially not now
that he’s just come up with an idea to potentially sidestep some of the romantic garbage. “Hey,” he
says, playing up the innocent yokel act, “you two wouldn’t wanna take our massage timeslot,
would you? That way we could have a look around.”

“Oh, we would,” Estelle says kindly, “but our massage is scheduled for tomorrow. If we took
your spot now, we’d have to give up our carriage ride tonight.”

“They put all of the guests through a rotating schedule,” Simon explains. “No one’s got the same
activity on the same day. More privacy that way, I suppose.”

Estelle taps a manicured finger over her lips as she thinks. “You could always look for ghosts
afterwards, couldn’t you? I mean, I wouldn’t give up a massage if my life depended on it,” she
jokes.

And Dean tosses her a weak nod in return. “Of course not,” he says with a strained smile. “Good
point.” After all, it’s not the massage part of ‘couple’s massage’ that he’s got the issue with.

“Tell us if you find anything,” Estelle adds, then lets out an eager little sound. “Just think, Simon,”
she says. “Maybe we could change our room to the haunted room. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“That sounds absolutely dreadful, darling. But we can do it if you like.” He pats her hand again
and turns back to his muffin.

And since Dean’s brilliant evasion idea has puttered out into nothing, he stifles a yawn with his
fingers and idly wonders when their massage is supposed to start so they can get the whole thing
over with. He glances at his watch, 9:37am, and then back up to Sam. He keeps staring, waiting
for his brother to eventually catch his gaze, then deliberately flicks his eyes back down to his
watch face. A silent question. How much longer?

Sam tosses him a tight grimace that’s probably supposed to be a smile and flashes both hands
twice. Twenty minutes.

Great—Dean thinks very sarcastically to himself. They’ve already eaten, but they’ve apparently
got time to kill so Dean grabs a chocolate muffin and another cup of coffee. Regular this time,
now that he’s done his due diligence with the whole ‘when in Rome’ thing.

One of the bellhops comes to get them at their appointed time, ten o’clock on the freaking dot, and
Sam’s been sneaking enough of his muffin the last few minutes that the thing looks half picked-
over. Like wild birds have gotten to it. So Dean chucks the remainder of his second breakfast into
the closest trash can and follows the guy. The quicker they deal with this, the quicker they can get
down to the actual saving people, hunting things part.

They’re led into a small, windowless room with the lights dimmed low and two long massage
tables set out side-by-side. There’s some kind of tape playing from an old boom box shoved into
the corner—faint animal calls and what Dean assumes is supposed to be crashing waves—and
that, plus the aggressively non-threatening shade of taupe on the walls practically screams
relaxation. Loudly. In an extremely non-relaxing kind of way.

The steward or bellhop or whatever this guy is supposed to be instructs them to undress and lay
face-down on the tables, then tells them their attendants will be in shortly, and hoofs it back out
again. And Dean very suddenly, very desperately hopes that the fact that management thinks
they’re gay doesn’t mean that some random dude’s gonna be in here groping at him for the better
part of an hour.

He shucks his flannel with probably a bit more force than necessary and pins his brother with a
grim-faced look. “Some gorilla named Butch walks through that door,” he warns him, “I’m going
through the wall. Straight through it. Like goddamn Bugs Bunny. I ain’t kidding, Sam.”

Sam just lets out a laugh though. Enjoying his suffering way too much like always. “Don’t worry,
Dean,” he says, peeling off his own layers. A wash-faded red polo over a black long-sleeved shirt.
It’s different—more of that unfamiliar college boy get-up—but it looks good on him. Holds tight
to the lines of his arms. “We can tell them I’m the jealous type. Real possessive. And you’re
scared that any other man laying a hand on you will upset me.”

Dean’s the one to roll his eyes this time. “Yeah, big, tough guy you are,” he drawls sarcastically.
“All anyone’s gotta do is print out a picture of Tim Curry as Pennywise and you’ll be cowering
under the covers before they can blink.” It’s an exaggeration, mostly, but it’s also kind of not.

“Don’t—” Sam bites out, pausing at the hem of his undershirt like he’s not sure if he wants to
throttle him yet. Then he lets out a hesitant sound. “Dean, you’re not gonna do that, right?”

“No, dipshit, I’m not gonna do that,” he says reassuringly. Although placing something like that
on Sam’s pillow would garner some goddamn hilarious results, the shouting match afterwards
wouldn’t be worth it.

Sam seems content enough at that, nodding his head in acknowledgment, and then strips off his
last shirt.

Here’s the thing. Sam had caught up, height-wise, at the tail end of sixteen, and then unfairly
edged past him the very next year. Dean had sullenly grumbled about it for a few months—
practically his birthright as the older sibling—but he’d always taken an odd sort of solace in the
fact that the rest of his little brother had resembled more of a string bean than anything else. All
lanky limbs and stretched-out frame. Actually, Sam still looks it most of the time, the way he
practically swims in his baggy college hoodies and his too-loose jeans. Like he’s afraid someone
might catch an inadvertent glimpse of his actual silhouette if he wears something in his own size.
But staring at Sam now, twisting and flexing as he tries to get his arms free of his long sleeves,
Dean finds himself a little bit thunderstruck.

Of course it’s not like this is the first time he’s seen his brother shirtless. Hell, not even since they
started hunting again. Dean’s seen Sam in way more varying and compromising stages of undress
the last few months alone—living out of tiny motel rooms and the cramped front seat of a car will
do that to a guy—but this is the first time he’s been forced to linger. And maybe it’s the whole
fake couple thing, subconsciously forcing Dean to look at his brother through new eyes. The eyes
of someone who would date Sam. The eyes of someone, a very non-brotherly someone, who
grew up with Sam down the street. Who went to the same high school. Who fucked around with
whatever girls would have him for a couple years until he realized that each one of his conquests
felt meaningless. Because they weren’t who he truly wanted. The type of someone who finally
pulled Sam aside, looked into those constantly shifting eyes, and belatedly fucking realized that
the petty, jealous comments and lingering, sidelong glances meant that Sam was gone for him too.
That he always had been. Dean looks through the eyes of someone who kissed Sam for the first
time under the bleachers and, from that moment, grabbed on and never let go for almost a whole
goddamn decade—and he starts to think that maybe some people, people who were very
definitely not him, but some people, regardless…might think that Sam is kinda hot.

Dean takes a bolstering breath and lets his eyes wander over the broad stretch of tan skin suddenly
made available to him. Purely for curiosity’s sake, given that his brother usually keeps the goods
hidden under layers and layers of protective cotton.
He’s not sure why though. Because Sammy may still have the same trim little waist and hips he’s
always had, but the rest of him is enough to send Dean’s blood rushing hot under his skin. That
ridiculously sculpted chest of his slowly rising and falling with each breath. His shoulders tucking
in a bit at the necessity of being uncovered in public, as if any shyness on Sam’s part could
disguise the sheer breadth of them. The beginnings of a six-pack set above the deeply carved cut
of his brother’s lean hips. It’s a man’s body, no question about it—not a boy’s any longer—and
Dean’s forced to accept the realization that his brother has finally caught up.

The thought hits him sideways and he scrambles back through his memories, tries to recall if Sam
had already looked like this that first night in Palo Alto, or if hunting had added a little more meat
to his bones. Hell, if he keeps heading in that same direction, he’s gonna put Dean to shame. And
that’s what Dean must be feeling. Envy. A grudging remnant of sibling rivalry over who’s got the
best bod. That’s why his mouth is dry. Why his palms are sweating. Why a wispy curl of heat
seems to be settling low in his gut and making his fingers tingle. He’s irked, that’s what it is.
Jealous over Sam’s new physique.

Dean works his mouth until he’s got enough moisture to speak and tries not to feel self-conscious
about the fact that his t-shirt’s still on. “Been hitting the gym?” he tosses out with his best attempt
at nonchalance.

Sam flushes all the way down to his chest, ruddy pink collecting at his collarbones, and the long,
sinuous curve of his back shifting as he turns around to face Dean fully. He opens and closes his
mouth a few times, like he doesn’t even begin to know what to say to that, and the familiarity of it
cools Dean’s fire a bit. Because it’s still Sam, even with the Men’s Health body. His dorky, sullen,
emo brother who prefers salads to burgers and cares way too much about what other people think
and drives Dean absolutely nuts most of the time—and he always will, no matter what he looks
like.

“Don’t worry,” Dean says, finally tugging his own shirt off. “I think the chick at the front desk
totally appreciated it.”

A weak, “C’mon,” is what Sam manages to scrape together for a comeback, and Dean has to fight
back a genuinely fond smile.

He scratches at his neck and considers taking his necklace off for a second because the thing’s
gonna be digging annoyingly into his chest when he lies on his front, but Sam’s eyes catch and
hang on the amulet for a bit, like he’s soul-deep pleased that it’s still there after the last four years.

Dean keeps it on.

He does strip off his boots, belt, and jeans though, tossing them onto the wrinkled pile he’s carved
out for himself on the nearest counter. His boxers come off last and he hops onto the massage
table, pausing halfway into lifting the sheet when he realizes that Sam has taken off his sneakers
and nothing else.

“Seriously, prude?”

His brother’s face is a solid pink by now and Sam rubs his palms over the denim still covering his
thighs like he can sandpaper the unease away. “It’s not like I need to take them off, right?” he asks
awkwardly.

Dean just lets out an aggrieved sigh and flips over on the table like he’s supposed to, placing his
face into the little hole. “God, you’re so fucking weird,” he says to the floor.

The sound of their door opening and closing intrudes on the moment, and Dean’s never been
more relieved in his life to hear a woman’s voice.

“Mr. Waters? Mr. Wright?”

“That’d be us, darlin’,” he says, lifting himself up onto one elbow so he can catch a glimpse of the
masseuse. And boy is he glad he did.

She’s goddamn gorgeous. Dark and curvy and just a little bit naughty underneath that professional
smile. If Dean wasn’t supposed to be gay right now, he’d be paying cold cash to give her a
backrub. Unfortunately, he can’t say as much for her coworker. The other woman, the one laying
out the towels with a stark, military sort of precision, looks like her parents may have been some
mix of a German tourist and a yeti.

“It’s nice to meet you,” the pretty one continues. “We’ll be your massage therapists this morning.
If you’ll both lie down, we can get started.”

The absolute smokeshow, with the rack and the lips, heads right over to him and Dean has to
smother his smile into the massage table so he doesn’t outright gloat in his brother’s face.

“Are you undressed to your comfort?” he hears the scary one ask Sam. And he must make some
sort of gesture in affirmation because there’s a muted, heavy thump as Sam gets settled on his own
table.

Dean lets out a long, relaxed sigh as his girl gets her hands on his bare back, anticipating a stolen
forty-five minutes of pure heaven, then frowns into the table when the expected bliss never comes.
In fact, her hands are kinda cold and clammy. Plus her nails are way too long to do any sort of
kneading of the muscle without sticking him a bit every time she moves. Dean twitches his arms
up, biting back a wince as she catches a nail on his shoulder blade, and he starts to fear that maybe
this isn’t gonna be a very good massage. No matter how hot his ‘therapist’ is.

He’s just about to do whatever he can to cut this whole thing short when Sam lets out a long,
drawn-out moan of pleasure from beside him, the sound vividly encapsulating everything Dean
should be feeling right now, but isn’t. Then his brother sucks in a tiny breath, almost goddamn
pornographic, like someone’s tickling at his balls, and Dean starts feeling that same overheated
feeling he did right before their massages. When Sam had started undressing. Jealousy—that’s
what it was. First over Sam’s body and now over Sam’s luck. In fact, Dean’s never felt so jealous
in his life.

Well, good for Sammy that he gets to enjoy himself—Dean thinks bitterly. While he’s stuck
listening to the audiobook. Lucky bastard must have got the better masseuse. Although…

Dean’s girl halfheartedly trails her knuckles down his spine, barely even pressing in at all. She
isn’t the best he’s ever had—she’s not even in the ballpark—but maybe he’s a little more hard-up
than he thought he was because even her weak attempts at rubbing him down seem to be revving
his engine. Dean had no idea he was even turned-on until his cock started twitching against the
padded leather. Sam groans again, quiet and breathy, as his girl really digs into the tension in his
lower back, Dean’s girl makes another limp-fish pass over his own shoulders, and Dean has to
picture his last ghoul hunt in vivid detail to get his dick to chill the fuck out.

Usually he wouldn’t. Hell, usually the masseuse would take care of it for him. But usually he
wasn’t in a small room with his little brother and a hotel full of people who they’re fooling into
thinking that he gives it to Sam on the regular. Maybe three times a week and a little something
extra on Saturdays. That is what Dean would probably do, if they were fucking for real. ‘Cause
Sam sure as hell needs some kind of routine loving to get him to loosen up. But he also knows his
brother. The kid’s always been a little weird about sex. Dean would have to be sensitive to his
needs. And he would. Of course he would. He wouldn’t push it too far. Wouldn’t do anything
Sam wasn’t comfortable doing. But Dean’s dumb dick can’t tell the difference between thinking
about sex in an abstract, analytical kind of way or just thinking about sex in general, and Dean
shakes the weird tangent out of his thoughts before he does something stupid like shoot off all
over the fancy white hotel sheet.

He spends the entirety of the rest of the session digging his nails into his palms and mentally going
over the little spotty Latin he knows by heart, because car schematics didn’t cool him down as
much as he thought they would have. Sam continues to make over-the-top wet dream noises
throughout the whole thing, because of course he does, and Dean barely manages to come out the
other side with his sanity intact.

Finally, his girl lets up on him with a final, anemic brush of her palms and Dean almost cries into
the table he’s so relieved. He’s not sure what the hotel’s reaction would be for getting spooge on
their expensive leather, but Sam would never have let him hear the end of it. That’s for sure.

The attendants offer him and Sam a pair of hot towels to scrub off with and then leave them to get
dressed again. And even despite the less-than-impressive massage, Dean can’t quite help watching
his masseuse go. The view might even make up for the rest of it.

“You know, you were right, Dean,” Sam says, nearly fucking glowing. “That was better than I
thought it would be.” He looks like what Dean imagines people who’ve just come back from a
tropical vacation might look like, all limber and rested. While Dean feels about a thousand times
more wound-up than before. Sam grabs one of the towels and presses it over his face with a
contented sigh, then sneaks a peek from under the material when Dean doesn’t respond right
away. “You okay?” his brother asks, giving him a curious once-over.

Dean tosses him a tight smile and arches his own shoulders back. It doesn’t help. “My chick needs
a few more lessons.”

“She couldn’t have been that bad,” Sam teases mildly, with a fleeting glance down to where
Dean’s tenting the sheet.

And he’s right, is the weird thing. He must be. It’s not like there was any other reason for Dean to
pop wood in the last forty-five minutes. So he shrugs and makes a joke out of it. “Forceful hands
aren’t really the cut-off for entry into my spank bank,” he lies, because it sounds like something
he’d say. Then he lets out a huff of air and deflects with a sleazy grin. “But what about you,
Samantha? You gonna go ask Hildegard there for her number?”

Sam halfheartedly flings his towel at his face. “Dude, shut up.”

“She’d probably take you back to her cave,” Dean continues, snatching the flimsy projectile out of
the air, “throw on a little number made from tree-bark and squirrel shit.” He holds up the limp
terrycloth, letting it dangle enticingly as he wiggles it in front of his chest. “Very tasteful.”

“You’re an ass,” Sam says as he makes a grab for his towel back. He doesn’t get a solid hold
though, and they end up wrestling with the steam-damp material, Sam getting a firmer grip around
Dean’s wrist in order to playfully try and wrench him off.

His brother’s hands are starting to become familiar again, palms hardening back into the callouses
a lifetime of hunting brings. They’d been softer, right after they’d first hit the road together. After
years of touching nothing but books and laptop keypads and Jessica. Classy girl like that, she
probably would’ve preferred it that way. Would’ve liked Sam’s hands smooth and delicate and
soft over her skin.
But you don’t need that—a voice whispers from somewhere deep inside him. You don’t mind a
rougher touch, do you?

Dean forcefully scatters the thought out of his head and lets Sam win the tug-o’-war, his fingers
going limp from some weird, misplaced guilt. Where the fuck did that come from? He just sits
there for a while, frozen in place long enough that his brother eventually hops off the table and
goes scrounging around for his shirts, then he pulls himself back together and makes a grab for his
own towel.

Huh, maybe he’s the one who should go chat up Hildegard.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“You get anything yet?” Sam asks him, eyes glued to the screen of the video camera he’s using to
scan the hallway.

Dean shakes the EMF meter a little, just to see if that’ll help. No dice. “Nah,” he says, rolling out a
crick in his neck. They’ve already been at this for most of an hour.

Sam doesn’t seem undeterred at the answer though, or bored yet, continuing to silently stalk
forward as if he expects to encounter a ghost any minute. They’re mostly just doing due diligence
at this point. Vengeful spirits are the most common cause of supernatural deaths—and
supernatural deaths where the bodies are never recovered that incorrectly get chalked up as
‘disappearances’—so ghosts is always the first box on the hunter’s checklist unless they have a
better lead. Sam’s currently manning their video camera to check for orbing while Dean’s playing
back-up with the EMF. Because he made it so he’s the one that gets to hold it,
thankyouverymuch.

He casually glances down at what recently used to be a Walkman, then up at the camera Sam’s
wielding, then furrows his brow as a gnawing idea starts to creep up on him. “Hey, uh, Sam?”

His brother hums distractedly from a few steps ahead of him, still focused on the tiny video screen.

“You ever think this is kinda…unnecessary? Like, uh, redundant.” He twirls his free hand around.
“What’s that word, means the same thing—‘super’ something?”

Sam spares him a glance. “Superfluous?”

“Yeah, that.”

His brother finally stops, letting out a breath at the inconvenient interruption as he waits for Dean
to catch up. “Do I think what’s superfluous?” he asks, his voice low enough to not disturb any of
the guests just beyond the doors.

“This,” Dean says, flicking his fingers back and forth to illustrate their situation. “We’ve got an
EMF meter right here, which will go off if there’s any ghost activity. So what’s the point in
checking for orbing too?”

Sam opens his mouth to argue with him, probably running on pure habit, then pauses like he’d
never considered that before. “Well…” he starts, then trails off with a bemused frown. “Huh.”

“I mean, right?”
“Yeah.”

“And it’s way bulkier than my thing,” he adds, gesturing with the EMF meter to prove his point.

Sam stares at the video camera in his hand for a moment, then back up to Dean. “The infrared
thermal scanner checks for cold spots. AN EMF can’t do that.”

“I can check for cold spots,” Dean points out sarcastically. “Watch.” He takes a few steps down
the hallway and turns to face Sam. “Huh, I’m not cold.” Then he takes a few steps back again.
“Still not cold,” he says. “No cold spots. Would you look at that.”

“Okay, okay,” Sam relents with an amused huff. “You’ve made your point.” He snaps the camera
screen closed and drops his hand back to his side. “I always figured we were just being thorough.”

Dean lets out a huff of air and scuffs his boots against the fleur-de-lis patterned carpet. “Man, you
know half of the hunting stuff Dad hoards is junk. I mean, I love the guy, but I have no clue what
he does with all the useless crap we use once and then never again.”

When he glances over, Sam’s face has kind of a pinched look to it, but at least he isn’t outright
sulking at the mention of John. “You mean like that pager that was supposed to alert him to other
hunters in the area?” he asks after a moment, the teasing in his tone an obvious peace offering.

“Ugh, I hated that fucking thing,” Dean moans, tossing his head back in playful disgust. “God,
with that awful, high-pitched beeping all the damn time? I couldn’t sleep for weeks.” He lets out
an unexpected snicker at the reminder, and Sam does too, surprisingly enough, and then they’re
both laughing reservedly at the memory. Sam looks good when he smiles, Dean decides. Maybe
it’s the dimples. Makes him look warm. Like something Dean can curl around and keep safe from
the cold of the world.

“At least it worked better than that sawed-off you made when you were eleven,” Sam says.

And just like that, the nice moment’s gone. Though it lasted longer than he thought it would. Dean
jabs at his brother’s arm with the side of his closed fist, not quite hard enough to actually hurt.
“Yeah, yeah, asshat,” he mutters in fake offense. “Get back to work.”

They continue investigating the rest of the hallway, side-by-side this time, until they run out of
hallway to investigate. The occasional painted doors standing at attention on either wall eventually
dwindle away to nothing but an antique mirror and a tastefully decorated end table. They’ve run
out of road on this lead. Literally.

Dean stands toe-to-toe with his own unimpressed reflection and uses the opportunity to fix his
hair. “Well, I’m willing to call ‘no ghosts’ on this one,” he says, tilting his head back and forth a
little until he’s sure everything’s in place. Then he thumbs at the EMF in his hand and wishes he’d
thrown on his leather jacket just for the pockets. “You ready to start investigating Vivian and Beau
yet?”

“I dunno, Dean,” Sam says stiffly, meeting Dean’s gaze through the mirror. “You ready to start
investigating Kat?”

He can’t help but chuckle a little at his brother’s obviousness. And his own. Dean just can’t rein in
his sexual magnetism, apparently. “You noticed that too, huh?” he asks proudly, turning around to
casually lean against the glass. And to meet his brother’s eyes directly. “I know you said all that
junk about not hitting on anyone ‘cause of—” Dean waves a hand between them to finish the
thought. “But I could always sneak her into our room one night on the down-low,” he offers as a
possibility. “A secret affair ain’t that outside the realm of believable, is it?”
Sam turns off the video camera with disconcerting efficiency. He doesn’t even look down at it. It’s
almost creepy. “It is if I dump your ass, kick you out, and solve this thing on my own,” he says
dryly.

“Aw, c‘mon, Sammy,” Dean protests with his most winning smile. “You wouldn’t actually break
up with me, right?”

“That depends. You gonna do something to drive me away?”

Dean’s breath catches in his chest at the careless question—so callous it’s almost cruel. Sam didn’t
mean anything by it. Of course he didn’t. It was just an unfortunate choice of words that happened
to skate too close to the edges of Dean’s actual vulnerabilities. Those gnawing, suffocating fears
of being left—again—that he’d never voice aloud to Sam. Not if his life depended on it. He can’t
give his brother that power over him. He doesn’t think he’d be able to survive it.

Sam seems to realize the unintended effect of his half-assed comeback right about the same time.
“That was just a joke,” he says quickly. Subdued and apologetic. “Dean, I didn’t mean—”

“We should go talk to the Huxtables,” Dean speaks over him, forcibly moving them past the
moment and onto more stable ground. And Sam just slumps in response, picking at the thin, black
bracelet around his wrist and nodding his head guiltily. Good. They don’t need to talk about it.

Dean looks back at the end of the hallway. The mirror and the desk. No ghosts at all.

Their first dead end.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean’s not sure what wakes him at first. He’d been out cold—sawing logs, forty winks firmly in
hand, the whole nine yards—and dreaming about something he can’t remember in the slightest,
when suddenly he finds himself wide awake and staring blearily at the frilly dust ruffle making up
the lower half of the room’s oversized bed. A little confused and a lot none-too-happy at not
currently being unconscious. He gets a loose grip around the knife under his pillow, half afraid it’s
his well-honed survival instinct kicking in, and grudgingly hoists himself up to peer at the door
until his eyes adjust…but the salt line hasn’t been broken. Plus as far as he can tell, the still, dark
air isn’t hiding anything sinister. It’s quiet and calm. Peaceful, even. Just as uneventful as the rest
of their waste of a day had been.

After their ghost hunt turned up nothing, they’d tried in vain to pursue some other avenues of
investigation, but the rest of the guests hadn’t strayed from their rooms all day—even Simon and
Estelle had made themselves scarce after breakfast—so other than managing to fruitlessly question
a few of the staff about the disappearances, they came up with jack and an extra heaping of squat.
Dean pretty much wrote off the whole day as a bust somewhere around mid-afternoon. Plus, the
only food the dining room had out was some weird little canapés, so they had to zip out to the
closest janky fast food place for Dean’s usual burger. The one bright spot was that Sam didn’t
complain about it for once in his life. Although Dean’s positive it was only ‘cause he was all
pleasantly filled up on that canapé shit.

He lets go of the knife hilt and scrubs a hand over his burning eyes, trying to wrangle his
wandering, over-exhausted thoughts back into some kind of order. Not an easy task at whatever
the hell hour it is. Ass crack of dawn.
It’s then that he finally hears it.

A sharp intake of breath from the bed. Followed by a violent twisting of the sheets and a quiet
moan. It’s Sam, he realizes. Dreaming. Although, that might be too kind a word for it.

“No,” Sam begs into the dark, and Dean only has to wait a few more minutes for whatever mental
terror is tormenting his brother to fully catapult him out of sleep. He jerks almost completely
upright, fumbling for a moment in the aftermath of his nightmare. Not totally sure where he is.

“Jessica?” Dean asks, sleep-rough, from his spot on the floor, his weight propped up on one
elbow.

Sam doesn’t say anything. He just holds himself very still for a beat, then shifts around until he’s
facing the other direction, the stiffness of his shoulders a very clear signal for Dean not to bother
him anymore.

But Dean’s never been good at that. “Sammy,” he tries again, softer. There’s nothing from the
bed, not even a creak of the springs. His ensuing sigh is more frustration than grogginess. “Sam
—”

“Yes,” his brother finally responds, terse. Probably just to shut him up. Sam doesn’t move for a
long while, probably intent on waiting him out through sheer stubbornness. But Dean and his little
brother are well-matched in that particular arena, and Sam gives first this time. “Yeah,” he says
after a deep breath. A little more tentative. And then he doesn’t say anything else. Though given
the stilted way he’s posed, up on that giant bed all by himself, he seems to want to.

Dean lets out another exhausted sigh and shifts all the way up onto his hands, way too tired for
these types of mind games. “You want me to—?” He gestures up at the bed, but he’s not sure if
Sam can even see it.

“I’m not five, Dean,” Sam answers bitchily.

“Well fine then,” Dean lobs right back. Just as pissy. And it’s weird, a bit. There’s no reason for
Dean to get all huffy over a response like that. He’d only been asking to be polite anyway. Sam’s
a grown-ass man now. They both are. He should be relieved that his brother doesn’t need him to
sleep with him. That he isn’t interested in cuddling like a toddler with a security blanket. It’s good.
It’s friggin’ fantastic. It means Dean can go the fuck back to sleep. So he does.

Or tries to at least. He punches his pillow a couple of times and shifts around uncomfortably for
far too long. Stupid Sam must have given him a lumpy one on purpose. Or maybe it’s just his
body crying out in unfairness at being relegated to the floor after the night he’d had on the most
expensive mattress he’ll ever lay eyes on. Dean slams his eyelids shut, wills goddamn sleep to
come, and very stoically doesn’t think about how much easier he used to conk out back when they
were young. Back before his kid brother would ever have thought of turning him down.

Sam’s even louder the next time.

Dean snorts awake, automatically scrabbling for his weapon again before his conscious brain can
catch up with his unconscious body. Though it only takes half the time for him to realize they’re
still safe. Physically, that is. Sam’s probably struggling with some less-than-literal demons given
the horror show happening up on the bed.

He’s twisted up in the sheets again, whimpering something mournful and illegible over and over
again into the pillows, and Dean isn’t sure if it’s sympathy or annoyance that propels him up to his
feet.
“Hey, c’mon, man,” he says tiredly, padding his way over to the bed. “You’re dreaming. Wake
up.”

But Sam doesn’t hear him. Or can’t, at the moment. He’s actually shaking with the force of
whatever he’s dealing with and Dean can’t stand to see him like that. It reminds him too much of
when they were kids. When a much smaller Sam used to be terrified of the literal monsters under
their bed and lurking around in the dark.

“Sammy,” Dean says, getting a firm hand around his shoulder and flipping him flat on his back.
Mapping out the shape of him mostly by touch. “C’mon, dude. Up and at ‘em.” A couple of light
slaps to the chest do nothing. Even shaking him doesn’t seem to be doing that much good to rouse
him—until it does.

Sam suddenly starts awake with a terrified inhale, nearly taking Dean clean off his feet with the
shock of it. “No!” he shouts again, scrabbling for the blanket, and even half-asleep he’s able to
tug it out of Dean’s hands, almost face-planting him into the mattress. Dean stumbles against the
bed, but he manages to get a stronger hold on the covers and purposefully yanks the damn things
back.

“Dammit, Sam,” he bites out through his teeth, holding his brother down through sheer force until
he finally calms the fuck down.

“Dean…what?” Sam asks groggily, once he’s relatively conscious again. He pushes up against
the hands Dean’s got on his torso, but doesn’t seem to have the energy or inclination to follow
through. “What’re you doing?”

Dean just levels him with a flat stare. He’s not even sure if Sam can see it in the dark like this, but
the venom of it feels good nonetheless. “Are you freaking kidding me?” he asks sarcastically.

And Sam practically crumples under his touch. “Was I dreaming again?”

“Yeah, if that’s what you wanna call it.”

Sam almost sucks into himself in apology, but he doesn’t shake Dean’s hands off. “Sorry,” he
says sheepishly. “I can get up now. Shouldn’t bother you anymore if you wanna catch a few more
hours.”

It’s the saddest thing Dean’s ever heard. And he’d have to be a real dick to take him up on it, no
matter how deserved it is on Sam’s part. “It’s like three o’clock in the morning,” he says. Practical
—that’s what it is. He’s just being reasonable. “I need you fresh tomorrow if we’re gonna make
any headway on this case, so…” He makes a repetitive pushing motion against Sam’s arm until
his brother gets it.

“Dean,” Sam starts in protest, but Dean isn’t hearing it. Not with the night he’s had so far.

“My back is killing me and your dumb ass keeps waking me up every two hours,” he says,
already lifting up his edge of the down comforter. “So scoot.”

And he does. In fact, Sam shoves over to make room for him on the bed with a lot less
complaining than Dean would have expected, and he’s struck momentarily speechless at the
uncharacteristic submission. The nightmares must’ve been even worse than he was letting on.

“Um, yeah,” Dean says, once he’s got his tongue working again. “Good.” He awkwardly shuffles
onto what has just become his side of the bed and lies there for a moment, oddly chastened. The
two of them simply breathing together in the dark. Their inhales and exhales slowly syncing up.
It’s as familiar as anything else in Dean’s life, but the very recognition of it sends something sick
and rigid coursing through his bones. They’re too old for this. Hell, they’d been too old for this
back when John had first suggested they start getting a rollaway and Sam had fought him tooth
and nail over it for another two years. And Dean hadn’t done a single thing to dissuade his
brother.

It’s his fault they’re doing this now.

“Y’know,” he adds after another uncomfortable minute, just for something to say in the sudden
weirdness of them sharing a bed again, “it’s no big deal if you’re still—” he flips his hand out to
fill in whatever concept he’s going for but has no idea how to express, “—over Jessica.” Sam
doesn’t say anything in response, still and silent and warm and breathing at his side. “It’s normal,”
Dean continues graciously, a meager attempt at trying to make Sam feel better by using his
favorite fucking word of all time. “If you’re still having nightmares about her after what
happened.”

“It isn’t Jess,” Sam admits quietly, and Dean turns his head to the side to face his brother fully. His
cheek flat against the pillow. “I mean, it is,” Sam says. “Starts out that way.” That’s the whole of
it. He breaks off there without finishing his story.

So Dean plows on through for him. Picking up the slack like always. “And how does it end?” he
asks, just as quiet. More indulgent than he should be probably. Or maybe it’s just morbid curiosity.

There’s a very long pause before Sam speaks again. Dean almost thinks he’s fallen back asleep.
“With you,” he eventually says. Devastatingly somber. He doesn’t meet his eyes.

Dean takes a breath before pointing his index finger up toward the ceiling. “Up on the…?”

“Yeah.”

And Dean gets it. He’d caught a fleeting glimpse of the gruesome display over the flames when
he’d been hauling Sam out of that blistering, smoke-thick apartment. He can’t even imagine how
much worse it must have been for his brother. To get the full brunt of it like that. Lying in a bed,
face up, just like this. Staring up at the bleeding, dying memory of somebody he cared about. It’s
no wonder his psyche replaced Jessica with Dean. Someone he loves in a different way. It doesn’t
mean anything more than that. It’s normal. Standard subconscious dream stuff.

Except for the fact that Sam had told him he’d had that exact same dream before she had actually
died.

Dean’s chest goes tight at the chilling thought. “It’s not, uh…” He clears his throat and tries not to
sound too callous. Or nervous. “It’s not one of your freaky vision nightmares, right?”

Sam lets out a heavy exhale that almost sounds like relief. So forceful it actually pushes their
shoulders together. A solid line of heated contact. Dean doesn’t move away. “No,” Sam says.
“Just one of your regular, never-want-to-sleep-again nightmares.”

“Oh,” Dean says. “Good.” Then he sucks in an apologetic breath as he tries to pull his own foot
out of his mouth. “I mean, not good, but—”

His brother actually laughs in response, cutting Dean off before he can backpedal himself into
saying something even more stupid. It’s the last thing he’d ever have expected to hear during a
conversation like this and the buoyant sound of it loosens something in him that Dean had been
keeping wound up tight. He wants Sam to sound like that always, no matter how impossible that
wish is.
“I get what you mean,” Sam says understandingly. Heartfelt and contented. Like there’s no place
he’d rather be, despite the awkwardness. “Don’t worry about it.”

So Dean leaves it at that. He twists his head back to mirror Sam at his side, both of them staring up
at the pristine, white ceiling until sleep finally comes to claim them again. But Dean’s not all that
impatient to get back to unconsciousness right at the moment. Not like he’d been only a few
minutes ago. Not with the way their arms are pressed together from shoulder to wrist, all the way
down.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam is stretched out, long and lax, on his bed when Dean shuts the motel door behind him—and
he instantly realizes he’s dreaming. The sight is too familiar and too unthinkable to possibly be
anything else.

Because Dean’s had this dream hundreds of times before, ever since Sam had left him for
California, and it always begins in the exact same way.

“Dad’s gone for the week, huh?” Dean recites just like he’s supposed to. Like he always does,
give or take the phrasing. “Guess we’re on our own for a bit.”

He knows it doesn’t mean anything—that his brother is always the one reclining coquettishly
across Dean’s bed instead of some nubile lingerie model from a half-remembered magazine
spread or the last willing diner waitress he’d briefly considered following into the back room. Sex
isn’t necessarily about sex when it comes to dreams. Dean may not be Mr. Fancy College
Diploma, but he’s decently-read enough to know that, at least. Plus, he may have looked it up a
few dozen times just to be sure. It doesn’t mean anything. Anyone could tell you that. It’s just
stress or guilt or indigestion from the dodgy-looking double bacon cheeseburger he’d scarfed for
lunch.

And it doesn’t mean anything either that Dean’s had this dream a few times before. Lots of
befores, even. It’s normal. It’s just his fucked-up, sex-obsessed subconscious trying to fit the bits
and pieces of his waking bullshit into a frame of reference that he can get his brain around. It’s
normal.

Dean doesn’t question how he always knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this version of his
brother never abandoned him for a nice, quiet little piece of civilian life. He takes an idle moment
to wonder if they’ve maybe already ganked the demon that killed Mom in this parallel timeline of
their lives, the one where Sam stayed and they’re all still together, going on four years now. It
never seems important enough to come up.

“I missed you,” Sam says softly, his gaze confident and half-lidded, and he’s somehow a little too
young and a little too old both at the same time. Because the Sam in his dreams never settles. Not
quite the angsty, coltish eighteen-year-old he’d been before he’d slipped through Dean’s fingers,
but not quite the stormy-eyed, brooding young man he is now either.

“’Course you missed me,” Dean teases, the slant of bravado exactly the same way he’d do it in
real life. As if his little brother wasn’t currently draped suggestively over his bed, gazing up at him
with an open mouth and fuck-me eyes. Dean never makes the first move in the dreams. Never
would, even when he knows he’s got the safety net of unreality to rely on.
“I dream about you too,” Sam purrs, shifting up against the comforter so that he can pretend the
sensual roll of his torso is just him readjusting positions. He’s shirtless now—somehow—and the
waistband of his jeans drags low enough to outline the distinct vee of his hips. Something in
Dean’s brain slots into place and he realizes it’s the exact same view he’d gotten before their
massages. The impressively toned upper body golden tan and breathing softly and all for him
right now, even if it cuts off sharply at the damned jeans he’d kept on the whole time. Though at
least the faint suggestion of Sam’s stiffening cock is pressing against the thin denim, big and
heavy. Keeps it from being too PG-13.

“Dean, I need you,” he pleads, breathy and sweet. “You know I need you.”

Dean never does hold out for long in these dreams.

He takes a step toward the bed and he’s inside him now, suddenly, his brother’s long legs
wrapped around his waist and the silk of his hair between his fingers. Sam gropes a huge hand
across his bare back, warm and calloused, and Dean doesn’t remember taking his shirt off.

Sam moans and clenches tight around him and he just feels the ache.

“You gonna fuck me, Dean? Please?”

“Yeah, Sammy,” he says, but he doesn’t.

Sam grips him harder, digs his fingers into Dean’s shoulders and drags him inevitably down until
he can feel his brother’s breath against his own lips. He doesn’t kiss him. He wants to kiss him.
He never kisses him.

“I need you, Dean,” Sam begs, the way he never would.

The ache is starting to devour everything else, sweetly painful, and Dean has to fight with
everything in him not to jerk his hips forward. “Yeah,” he says. It feels like there’s a vine
strangling his throat. Or a snake. Something living and ruthless.

“I need you, Dean.”

“I’m here,” he promises. “I’m always here.”

“You need me, Dean.”

“I’m here,” he says again, but the statement sounded different that time. He can’t remember why.

His cock screams at him, demanding that he move, demanding that he give into the excruciating
temptation surrounding him, but Sam doesn’t push. He never does. He just touches him, open and
giving, exactly the way Dean doesn’t deserve.

Sam watches him for a while, adoring and sympathetic, then he buries his face in his neck. “I’m
sorry,” he whispers, lips dragging across his skin. “Don’t let me go.”

Dean nods his head, a silent promise. Never again. This Sam didn’t leave him. He’s the only one
who didn’t. The only one who never would.

“But I came back,” his brother says softly, a faint echo that doesn’t belong in this Sam’s mouth.
He stretches up to press a line of dry, needy kisses along Dean’s jawline and up to his sideburns
and Dean wants to crumble into pieces every single place they touch. Something traces a line, wet
and delicate, over his heated skin—his tongue or his lips, some piece of Sam so it’s precious either
way—then he drops back down to turn his face into Dean’s temple. To whisper lovingly against
the curve of his ear. “It ain’t just a river in Egypt, y’know.”

Wait. That’s different.

Dean’s arms go rigid and he pulls back to pin his brother with an uneasy frown, Sam gazing
knowingly up at him like he’s got the answers to all the mysteries of the universe trapped within
his shifting eyes. “What?”

Because Sam’s never said that before. Not in the dreams.

It’s different now.

“Why is it different now?” Dean’s not sure if he said that part or thought it, but Sam smiles at him
anyway.

“Dean,” someone says, but it sounds like it’s coming from far away.

“Do you feel it too?” Sam asks, and the question is monumental somehow. Life-changing. He
knows it is.

Dean suddenly feels like he’s sinking in quicksand. “Feel what?” he asks back.

“Dean,” comes the voice again.

But Sam doesn’t look like he can hear it at all. He just smiles one more time, cunning and serene
and unsettling. Staring up at him, perpetually staring up at him with those all-knowing eyes.
 Wednesday

“Dean!”

He jerks awake, clumsily fumbling through thin air and squinting against the bright light washing
through the hotel room. Dean raises a hand to uselessly shade his eyes until he can make out Sam,
sitting at the table across the way and nursing what looks like a cup of coffee. “Feel what?” he
asks again, for real this time.

“What?” Sam blinks at him in utter confusion.

“What?”

His brother gives him a good long look, probably to make sure he isn’t just sleepwalking or
something. “I’ve been calling your name for the last two minutes, man,” he says.

“I was sleeping,” Dean says gruffly, a little more conscious now. He rubs a hand over his face as
he tries to force himself into the waking world. Sam must have risen bright and early and drawn
the curtains open to let all the stupid morning sunshine in. The absolute dick. “Whaddya want?”
he asks. Curt and grumpy.

He’d had another one of the dreams last night. He can remember it once the bits and pieces come
filtering back into his brain, grainy polaroid flashes of unforgivable perversion. He used to only
get them while Sam was at Stanford, but they’ve been creeping up on him the past few weeks.
Dean shoves the flicker of guilt and self-disgust down somewhere deep and flings the covers off
his legs, twisting and shifting to the edge of the bed until his feet are resting on the floor. Thank
god his current downstairs situation can be explained away as simple morning wood.

“I’m just making sure you get up, Dean,” Sam answers smoothly. “Our case is looking pretty
pathetic so far.” He grants Dean a disappointed tilt of his head, then takes another sip from his
steaming cup. It is coffee. Dean can smell it now. “So I wanted to get a head-start on everything
today.”

Dean pins his brother with a bleary, uneven glare, one eye a little more open than the other. “Can
our head-start come after a shower?” he asks, voice still thick with sleep. He spares a brief,
longing look to the caffeinated ambrosia Sam’s got warming his hands and amends his request.
“And coffee?”

Sam smiles. Generous, and yet somehow smug at the same time. “C’mon, you really think I didn’t
get you one?” he says teasingly, sliding a second cardboard cup across the pale table.

Dean hadn’t even realized it was for him. He thought it was empty. A leftover from yesterday.
“Oh, Sammy,” he breathes happily, the kind of eternally grateful that can only occur at six in the
morning. “What would I ever do without you?”

“Get your own damn coffee?” Sam suggests over the lip of his cup. But he looks pleased as all
get-out while he does it.

He makes a grab for the liquid salvation, angling his hips away from his brother as subtly as
possible as he tips back the first sip with an appreciative sigh. And if Sam finds it weird that
Dean’s lower half is twisted three-quarters away until he finishes the entire thing, he doesn’t
mention it.

Sam boots up the computer a few minutes later, already moving onto the work, and Dean slips
Sam boots up the computer a few minutes later, already moving onto the work, and Dean slips
into the bathroom to drain the lizard and start his own day, not bothering to close the door all the
way. He rarely does, unless he’s actually taking a shit. There’s no point. Quick, easy access in
case of an emergency is way more important than an eked-out moment of solitude. Plus, it’s not
like they've got anything the other one hasn’t seen at least a thousand times before. Someone
should give his brother the memo though. While he may not actually ever lock the door—because
Dean would read him the friggin’ riot act for that kind of recklessness—Sam usually cloisters
himself up even for something as harmless as washing his face.

Dean glances indifferently at his reflection in the large wall mirror as he strips out of his
sleepwear, tossing each subsequent article into a messy pile in the corner. He’s not sure what
Sam’s so afraid of. You’d think after being apart for so long, he’d clamber for any chance at
brotherly companionship he could get. Like he does—Dean admits reluctantly, then immediately
feels insecure about. But what mortal man could possibly hope to fathom what goes on in Sam’s
head anyway? He smothers the little squiggle of resentment away and finally steps into the
shower.

It’s gorgeous. Brand-spanking new and immaculate. Dean’s used to motel bathrooms that were
first constructed in the mid-70s and slowly lost their battle with time and mold over the ensuing
thirty years, but this place clearly knows the importance of a well-paid housekeeping staff. Even
the grout between the tiles is still a pearly white.

It gets even better when he actually twists the taps on, and Dean jogs down an earnest mental
reminder to himself to stay at fancy places like this more often. The water rushes out hot and
strong and scalding, just the way he likes it, and he can’t help letting out a breathy groan at how
amazing it feels. The pressure is freaking glorious. Dean wants to spend the rest of his life in this
shower.

He lets the hot water crash steady and firm against his back for a while, rolling his shoulders
hedonistically at the much-needed massage. Especially after his let-down yesterday. And hey,
speaking of hedonism…

Dean reflexively glances back at how he left the bathroom door, ajar just the slightest bit, and
chews at his bottom lip as he weighs the risks. He hasn’t had a chance for any sort of alone time
since they’d started this case, what with the whole fake boyfriend thing and all. And since Sam
had made it very clear that Dean’s other potential outlet for tension—i.e. an actual, living,
breathing woman—is out of bounds for the duration of their phony relationship, Dean figures this
may be the best shot he’s gonna get for a while. Especially considering that they seem to have
agreed on splitting the bed arrangements right down the middle. He’s not sure quite when it
happened. Sometime last night, he guesses. But Sam had slept right on through ‘til morning
without a peep once Dean had been close enough to calm his subconscious down. And he’s
gladly willing to give up some privacy as long as it means he can get some sleep without his little
brother freaking out the instant he shuts his eyes.

So Dean shrugs his metaphorical shoulders and decides to go for it, even with the door open the
way it is, placing his off hand against the tile so that he doesn’t slip. He can be quiet enough that
Sam won’t notice. He’s had a lifetime of practice, after all.

Dean coyly circles his fingers around the width of his slowly awakening dick, allowing himself a
purely egotistical flash of pride for a moment, the way he always does, then lazily passes his palm
over the tip of his burgeoning hard-on a few times as he lets his mind wander over the standard
fare. Victoria’s Secret models and B-movie actresses and old conquests. Familiar classics that
never fail to get him going.

But after an unsatisfying few minutes, he realizes his usual jerk-off fodder isn’t doing it for him
right now. He wants someone different, someone real. Someone like that girl behind the front
desk. Abby—that was her name. She’d been hot and peppy and available. Dean wraps his wet
hand more fully around himself and allows the movement of his wrist to shift into something
rougher. More deliberate. Remembers the way she’d looked up at him with those big, heavy-
lashed eyes. He lets an expectant smirk meander over his face at the image of her, grinning all
bright and innocent and eager…but unfortunately, he has to concede eventual defeat when his
body disappointingly fails to rise to the occasion. Dean really doesn’t need a case of carpal tunnel
from trying to force anything. He gets it though. She was a little too passive. A little too…
amenable. She’d be sweet, he thinks, but that’s the problem. Probably the type to lay back and
look pretty. She’d want him to do the work. Take control. And Dean could, of course—has in the
past—but it’s not what gets his motor running.

So he gets a tighter grip around himself and focuses on his masseuse from yesterday morning
instead. The way her perfect ass had looked walking out of there. Yeah, that’s better. The subtle
gleam in her eye as she’d looked him over in return. Like he was a safe target because she thought
he was gay. She was a spitfire under all that professionalism, he could tell. Dean lets the heat rise
through him, then presses his forehead against the tile wall and frees up his left hand to palm at his
balls, his right still keeping up a steady pace on his cock. The soft press of her tits against the tight
neckline of her top. Her weak, cold hands half-heartedly stroking down his back. No, goddammit.

Dean rolls his head to the side with a frustrated grunt and squeezes at the head of his erection to
keep his libido in the game. Kat—he thinks. Yes. Fucking finally. Now there’s someone who
rings every bell in his steeple. Shameless and alluring and just bold enough to make him work for
it. He pumps his cock hard and thinks about the soft fall of her hair, pale as corn silk. Kat was no
shrinking violet. Not with the way she’d practically thrown herself at him, boyfriend or no. She
wouldn’t have any problem ordering Dean right where she wanted him, pushing him back against
a wall or a bed or the goddamn floor, climbing onto his lap and just taking. Dean lets out a low
groan and speeds up his movements. Plus, she was freaking gorgeous, tall and tan and athletic.

His brain suddenly jumps the tracks and flicker-hits onto an image of Sam—sweat-slick and
stretched-out and needy beneath him, from his dream last night—like the adjectives have unlocked
the mental gates to anyone that fits that description. A spike of hot arousal jolts down Dean’s spine
fierce enough to cause him to suck in a strangled gasp. And he has to plant his left hand on the
wall again to steady himself, shaken, as he breathes in the humid steam. Jesus—he thinks,
forcefully redirecting his thoughts onto Kat once more. Trying to ignore the aberration. Fucking
weird is what it was.

Dean very intentionally centers his fantasies back on the girl as he continues to jerk himself off,
that tight coil at the core of him winding closer and closer to the tipping point—the sharp, clean-
shaven angle of a man’s jaw—No. No. He’s thinking about Kat. Kat’s voice. Kat’s face. Kat’s
body—his little brother gazing up at him with those soft eyes and even softer words—She’s
obviously into him and has a lethal figure. Dean barely even has to imagine what she might look
like underneath her clothing, the way it had been clinging to her every curve—“Do you feel it
too?” he had asked, and it was important somehow—She’d leave her fiancé for him in a
heartbeat. Even for just a fling. Probably a wildcat in the sack too, given the eager, hungry way
she’d been eyeing him earlier—Sam’s arms and Sam’s skin, smooth and taut and bleeding heat—
Kat biting at her full bottom lip as she leaned in a little closer—the firm planes of his brother’s
chest peaked with tight, dusky nipples—the sweet smell of her perfume—the long, sweeping curve
of Sam’s lower back leading down to the swell of his pert little ass—Dean’s dick pulses in his
hand, his orgasm yanking him helplessly forward by the hips and ripping a strangled sound from
his throat even as he desperately tries to take it back. Like he’s choking on everything he’s failing
to keep inside. So loud Sam must have heard. Must have, even from the other room.

Wet stripes of white slowly drip down the shower wall, undeniable evidence of Dean’s sin even
as the steaming water starts to dissolve it away. He can’t breathe. He can only stand there, slack-
jawed as he tries to come to terms with the worst—liar—goddamn orgasm of his life. And the
quickest—his treacherous brain feels obligated to remind him. I wonder why? Dean jams his
knuckles between his teeth, bites down hard, and tries not to throw up. He doesn’t feel relaxed
and loose. He feels sick.

And he can taste himself on his hand, bitter and unmistakable, and his mutinous fucking dick has
the gall to twitch. Dean reaches out and clumsily hits the knob all the way to the right, letting out a
hiss as the ice-cold water crashes over his overheated skin.

It never happened. He’d been thinking of Kat. He had been. The other stuff was just…incidental.

He can’t even move his feet. He just stands there under the freezing deluge, weighed down with
the leaden knowledge of what just happened. He can’t walk out into the main room like
everything’s fine. Can’t face Sam right now. Have his baby brother look up at him and blink those
too-aware eyes and somehow know.

Dean would rather spend the rest of his life in this miserable shower.

In fact he almost does, only managing to drag himself out, shivering, nearly thirty minutes later.
But if Sam suspects anything awry, he doesn’t say anything—the slight flush and uncomfortable
shifting in his chair the only evidence of having heard him at all. Luckily, he must be too
embarrassed or disturbed or used to it to bring it up and Dean almost thanks a God he doesn’t
believe in for the reprieve.

“Hey, man, I’ve been thinking,” his brother says clumsily, clearing his throat a little when his
voice catches.

Dean wraps his towel tighter around his waist, protective, and forces himself to act and sound
normal. “I’ll alert the paramedics.”

“Ha ha.” Sam twists back to look at him, notices his current state of undress, and then quickly
turns back to the laptop again with an awkward cough. He had heard. It’s written all over his face.
“I’ve been thinking of a way to make this whole thing easier for you,” Sam continues, facing
unwaveringly forward.

And Dean can’t help his immediate, knee-jerk overcompensation. “Gee, Sammy,” he coos, thick
as syrup. “You’re so thoughtful and sensitive. Why don’t you let me carry you into the shower so
I can tenderly wash your back? I’ll even shampoo your hair for you.”

Sam twitches in frustration, his back stiff as a board. “Jesus. Fine,” he says tetchily. “Sorry I tried
to help.”

A cold drop of water winds its way annoyingly down Dean’s chest and he finally slips off his
towel to scrub at it, refusing to let the sudden weirdness hanging in the air continue any longer.
And that helps. It’s surprising how easy it is to pretend everything’s fine once he takes the first
step. Dean decides right then to leave whatever happened in the bathroom in the bathroom and not
think about it again. Easy enough of a fix.

“What brought on the sudden concern for my well-being?” he asks, striding over to his duffel to
scrounge around for a clean pair of boxers.

He can hear Sam let out a light sigh from behind him. “I just figure we’ve probably done enough
of the fake couple-y stuff at this point,” he says. “Do we really need to keep up the act?”

Something about Sam’s question knocks him unexpectedly off-kilter. Scrapes him up inside in a
way Dean can’t explain. “Dude, we have no idea who our baddie is,” he points out, incredibly
logically. “Most likely, it’s somebody here in the hotel. If we give them any reason—any reason at
all—to suspect we’re not what we say we are, then we’re basically handing them the element of
surprise. On a fucking platter.” He slips his shorts on a little too roughly, accidentally snapping the
waistband on himself. It doesn’t really hurt, but he hisses anyway, wound up for some reason.
“You want some two-bit, Halloween store-reject to get the drop on us?”

Dean shoves his fist back into his bag for a t-shirt and wonders why he’s suddenly fighting so
hard for something he’s been complaining about this entire time. He’s got no clue how he ended
up on the other side of this, but he digs his heels in and lowers his horns regardless. It’s more a
matter of tenacity at this point.

Sam doesn’t make it too hard for him though. “Yeah, okay,” he says, giving up without any
semblance of a fight whatsoever.

And Dean almost trips over himself at how easy that was. “Right,” he says warily. “Good.”

It feels like more of a win than it should.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Okay,” Sam says, pacing back and forth behind him as Dean dutifully takes his shift on the
laptop, “maybe it’s a Pagan god?” Dean has to repress a literal shudder at the memory of the
fucker that so recently tried to skin him, but he still listens patiently as Sam works out his
argument. They’ve been at it for most of the morning by now and haven’t made much headway
yet. He’ll take any lucky stab in the dark they can get. “The timing of the disappearances—almost
always in the spring—could mean that the deaths are ritualistic,” Sam mutters, half to himself.
“The hotel’s drawing in customers and setting all this up for…money, maybe? Unless you think it
has something to do with crops or good harvest like that other one.”

“One couple went missing in December,” he points out, eyes still fixed on the webpage laying out
the history of the hotel. “That breaks the pattern.”

He can feel Sam pause behind him. “Well, maybe that one disappearance is unrelated?” he tries.
“Coincidence?”

“Ooh, swing and a miss,” Dean tosses back distractedly. He doesn’t even turn around. A lazy
guess like that is beneath them, really.

“Yeah,” his brother says with a reluctant sigh. He probably didn’t even believe it as he was saying
it. Just grasping at loose straws. “Then maybe it’s a skinwalker?” He starts up the pacing again,
absent-mindedly flipping one of their butterfly knives in his hand as he thinks. “Everyone thinks
it’s a gator making the kills because it is. Or—someone who can look like a gator, at least.”

“If it was actual gator kills, we’d be seeing body parts.” Dean pauses for a moment at a possible
lead, then clicks away again when it turns out to be nothing. “But these people are straight-up
vanishing. So either our baddie is disposing of the bodies or they’re actually drowning.”

“Okay then, drowning,” Sam says, latching onto the new theory. “It’s some kind of water spirit,
like a rusalka.”

Dean actually lets out a snort at that one. “A ton of women are missing too,” he reminds him. “No
friggin’ way it’s a rusalka.”

Sam snaps the knife shut with an irritated sort of finality. “You could help, y’know,” he says
flatly.

“I am helping,” Dean insists. “I’m shooting down your dumb ideas.”

Sam lets out a resigned breath and walks back over to the table, clearly having given up for the
moment since he’s now focused on leaning over Dean to get a better view of what he’s working
on. It’s a flip from their usual position and Dean almost laughs about it—Sam hogs the computer
so much he thinks he might have to pry him off with a crowbar sometimes—but the bubble of
humor dies in his throat once his brother nudges a little closer. His long fingers are wrapped
around the back of the chair and grazing the knobs of his spine, his shoulders almost wide enough
to block out the light from the window and hovering barely a scant quarter inch above Dean’s
own…and in a weird, protracted flash of clarity, Dean actually can’t believe how long he’s spent
not noticing them. Well, of course he’s noticed them before. His brother’s an unfairly overgrown
giant. Dean grumbles about it all the time. Loudly. He’s just never notice-noticed them.

And something about the cant of those same shoulders, the closeness of it, makes Sam come off
endearingly at ease in the moment. Almost comfortable, as hard as that is to believe, given Sam’s
pointed distaste for absolutely everything having to do with hunting. Because sure, he’ll stand all
tall and menacing sometimes, staring down a possible threat from Dean’s seven o’clock. Or he’ll
tuck into himself, hands in his pockets and slouched down to look as harmless as possible in front
of a grieving witness. But with Dean he just…relaxes. Sprawls himself over furniture. Leans
against him. That long body casual and loose-limbed as he fits himself into and around Dean’s
space. Not even consciously realizing he’s doing it.

It’s charming.

Hell, it’s almost adorable.

Dean quietly digs his fingernails into his palms before he can do something stupid like lean in
himself. “We’re getting nowhere here, man,” he says, clearing his throat of any possible emotion.
“Fast.” Sam finally shifts back a bit to take in his expression and Dean does not feel anything
about it at all. Nothing. Certainly not a pang of disappointment at the distance. It’s not about
that—he demands of his own realization. It’s probably just discomfort from the way he’d been
sitting. It’s why he makes Sam be the one to hunch over the laptop day in and day out. Dean’s not
built for it the way his geek brother is. “I say we hit up some witnesses,” he says firmly, forcibly
setting his mind on the work. “Find out if anyone saw anything they were too weirded out by to
tell the cops.” Dean pushes his chair out and finally stands, stretching out his back a little to relieve
any troublesome muscle strain. It seems to feel fine now though. “And we’ve gotta question the
rest of the staff and guests here, see if there’s any patterns that pop up.”

Sam rests his ass back against the table and wraps his hands around the edge, nodding in
concession. “Alright,” he says, “I’ll take the witnesses. Most of the couples died together, but in
two instances only one person went missing. I guess I can talk to both of the surviving spouses.”

“No,” Dean insists right away, “I’ll take the witnesses and you can stay here and get chummy
with the rest of the Love Boat.”

Sam waffles at the order, slipping his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie and shifting around
like the table’s too hard. “Dean, c’mon,” he says hedgingly, clearly hoping that Dean will just
gather his meaning by osmosis so he doesn’t have to say the actual words.

But Dean doesn’t help him out in the slightest. He just raises an impatient eyebrow. “C’mon,
what?”

“No, I’m just saying—” Sam lets out a short breath as he breaks off. “These people lost partners
that they cared about,” he says tactfully. Dean doesn’t offer a word in response, staring evenly at
his brother and waiting for the hammer to drop. “…And I’m better with sensitive situations than
you are.”

There it is. Dean snaps their laptop shut, a little harder than he needs to, and jabs a finger in his
face. “Screw you,” he says flatly, “no you’re not.” Then he turns back away to gather up his
wallet, phone, and keys.

Sam follows his movements around the room with a placid look of disbelief. “You made a woman
cry last month,” he reminds him.

“She wouldn’t let us into her house.”

“Her uncle died,” Sam says with an almost comedic sense of exasperation.

Dean lets out a scoff and deliberately changes the subject. “Do we even know if we have time to
question anyone right now?” he asks sarcastically. “What’s our super stupid activity for today?”

“Carriage ride,” Sam answers quickly, thoroughly undeterred. “And it’s not until later tonight. We
have the whole day to work the case.”

He has to bite his tongue at the obnoxious fact that Sam apparently memorized the fucking
itinerary. “You ever take a step back and think about how bullshit it is that we’re beholden to
some arbitrary schedule of goopy things we don’t even want to do?”

“You’re the one who insisted on all the amenities,” Sam says dryly. “Not to mention that this
whole relationship plan was your idea. ‘Finest four-star service the Bayou State has to offer’,
remember?”

Dean chokes off a low growl before it can escape. He hates it when his brother intentionally
quotes his own words back at him. Plus, this conversation seems to be veering dangerously close
to things Dean doesn’t want to talk or think about. “Look,” he eventually says, trying to meet at
least somewhere in the middle on this, “I just don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be driving
around out there all day long.”

Sam lets out an annoyed sigh and brings a hand up to massage the tension out of his long neck,
probably getting whiplash from trying to catch up with Dean’s sudden conversational shifts. “Why
not?”

Dean holds his ground as long as he possibly can, but at a certain point something just needs to be
said. “You ride the brakes,” he finally admits in a childish huff. Then spreads his hands out in his
own defense. “Whaddya want me to say?”

There’s a very, very long pause as Sam digest that. “Oh my God,” he says, slow and emphatic,
“that’s what this is about? The stupid car?”

Dean flinches back at Sam’s unnecessary hostility. “Whoa, don’t call her that.”

“She’s a—” Sam cuts himself off with a tense breath, then course-corrects, “it’s a car, Dean,” he
snits, pushing up to his feet. “I’m driving.”

“No, you’re not driving.”

“Give me the keys.”

Dean lets out a scoff at Sam’s outstretched hand and plants his feet securely. “Why don’t you take
‘em from me?” he challenges, steady and cocksure. It’s as blatant a refusal as anything else. His
little brother almost never wins their physical tussles.

But he’s trickier than a damn bag of weasels and twice as slippery. Dean forgets that sometimes.
Sam drops his arm back to his side with a huff, makes like he’s given up on the immature
argument entirely, and then suddenly feints a sharp left only to twist around and rush Dean from
the right.

“Oh you fucking dick,” Dean lets out on a disbelieving breath as his brother snakes the keys from
his jacket like a professional pickpocket. Light-fingered and unfairly fast. “I taught you that,” he
complains sharply, swiping at thin air as he tries to snag his fingers around Sam’s hood.

But Sam hotfoots it out of the way, dimples carved into his cheeks and a flash of white teeth as he
gloats. “Maybe you’re just getting slow in your old age,” he says, dangling the keys tauntingly in
his face before slipping them into his own front pocket.

Dean cannot, will not lose this battle of wills—especially after the big, cocky show he just made of
things. And if Sam managed to outthink and outmaneuver him, then at least Dean can get the last
word in edgewise. Hit his brother where it really hurts. Unfortunately, the only leverage he can
think of on the spot is Sam’s obvious dislike of Kat for whatever reason. But it’s the one arrow
he’s got in his quiver, so he’s damn sure gonna use it.

“Fine,” Dean says smugly, forcing himself to look nonchalant while trying to rub it in as much as
possible. “If you’re gonna be out there, wearing down my shocks, then maybe I’m gonna be in
here, getting nice and chummy with Kat.”

Something quick and dark flares across his brother’s eyes, but it’s gone well before Dean can
catalogue it. “Great,” Sam spits tightly. “Go talk to Kat. We’re both happy.” He strides right by
him, nearly shoulder-checks Dean as he shoves by, and exits out into the hallway—car keys
firmly in hand.

He doesn’t even give Dean the satisfaction of slamming the door shut behind him. Rattling it off
its hinges like Sam does whenever he’s pissed. No. He just closes it all normal and polite, like he
isn’t affected in the slightest.

It isn’t until a good handful of minutes later that Dean realizes he got the last word too.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean isn’t actually seeking out Kat specifically as he steps into the dining room for lunch. He may
be nursing one whopper of a grudge, but he’s not that much of a dick. She is engaged to someone
else, after all. It just so happens that his stars must have aligned, considering who’s sitting smack
dab at the corner of the long, oak table. Simon and Estelle are there too, as per usual—the only
people he doesn’t really need to speak to, having already written them off as suspects—but Dean
doesn’t catch even a glimpse of Josh. He can’t say the man’s absence comes as much of a
disappointment.

“Room for one more?” he asks, already striding over to the lunch buffet to fill up a plate. Taking
the current opportunity to mine the guests for information means he’ll have to forgo his usual grub,
but at least the spread looks edible today. Some kind of fancy sandwiches. And, thankfully,
there’s beer this time.

“Bonjour, Dean,” Estelle greets him brightly. “Where’s your better half?”

Dean decides to play thick as he loads up his slice of bread, mostly because it feels kinda good to
take a dig at Sam, even when he isn’t present. “I’m right here,” he says, sucking a smear of
mustard off his thumb.

Estelle chuckles, totally charmed by what’s she’s assuming is playfulness. “Katerina here was just
filling us in on Josh’s whereabouts as well.”

“Is that so?” he asks conversationally, balancing his stacked plate and ice-cold bottle in his hands
as he takes a seat right next to Kat herself. “And where is the future Mr. Kat?”

She tosses a strained little smile at him, her eyes crinkling attractively at the weak humor. “We had
a…heated discussion earlier,” she says diplomatically. “I think he’s cooling his heels in the
gardens out back.”

Dean takes an enormous bite of his sandwich. “Well, maybe he can put one of his lawnmowers to
good use,” he jokes through a mouthful of roast beef.

Kat lightly slaps him on the arm, trying to rein in another smile, while Estelle simply laughs out
loud. Even Simon chuckles into his politely closed fist.

“His loss, anyway,” Dean mumbles, then swallows. “Can’t say I mind the present company.”

Kat simply picks at the last of her french fries and gives him a subtle, pleased look.

“And where’s your boy at this fine afternoon?” Simon asks innocently.

Dean almost chokes on his sandwich, chafing a little at the way the moniker settles so comfortably
over his shoulders. Your boy. He ignores the possessive ember of contentment in his belly and
takes a few pulls of his beer until he stops coughing. “Uh, Sammy’s out at one of his hippy places.
Meditating or something.”

Estelle frowns elegantly. “He can’t do that here?”

“Guess not,” he says simply, hoping that a short answer will be vague enough to satisfy. It seems
to work, thankfully, as everyone moves on without much of a fuss.

“Don’t worry, bebelle,” Estelle says, turning back to Kat and patting her hand. “I’m sure Josh will
see the error of his ways soon and come find you to apologize.”

Kat sits very still for a moment, then glances up at him through her lashes. “Well, it’s like Dean
said,” she flirts coyly. “His loss, right?”

Dean catches the obvious come-on and takes a serious second to consider how far he can push
this without anyone else at the table noticing, when he’s interrupted by his cell phone buzzing
briefly in his pocket. His first, knee-jerk thought is that it might be his dad, contacting him back
after the voicemail he’d left, but that small, automatic spark of hope settles down when it just turns
out to be a text from Sam. Apparently, Dean can’t keep the slight disappointment off his face
though because the whole conversation discreetly peters out around him.

“Everything alright?” Estelle asks with her particular, way-too-nosy brand of concern.
Simon rubs a hand over her arm affectionately. “I’m sure it’s just Sam, darling.”

“Yeah,” Dean confirms absently, “gimme a sec.” He flips his cell open and dares to look upon
what kind of text his brother has left him after their earlier—how did Kat put it? “Heated
discussion.” Dean lets out a private little scoff to himself and skims his gaze over the fuzzy,
miniscule lettering.

Just finished with the first witness. On my way to the second.

He half expected something passive-aggressively cliché, but given the professional tone of the
update, Sam’s clearly pretending that their spat never happened. Fair enough. Dean’s getting
pretty sick of the constant Sam and Diane bullshit too. He glances over the table’s politely
continuing conversation and shoots off a distracted reply, eyes only half on his phone.

u get anything useful?

Nope. Her boyfriend liked to hike. Apparently he was a big nature guy. He went for a walk late
one night and never came back. She thinks he drowned.

and our usuals?

No flickering lights. No smell of sulfur. She said their whole vacation was completely normal until
he disappeared. Nothing out of the ordinary.

k. lemme know if dude #2 pans out. otherwise u suck at ?ing

Jerk.

He types out a quick bithc in response, not caring enough to correct the hasty misspelling, then
snaps the phone shut and shoves it back in his pocket.

“Sorry about that,” Dean says, jumping back into the discussion. “Where were we?”

Kat tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and then waves that same hand out to indicate the
other two. “Apparently, Simon and Estelle’s last big trip before this was to Las Vegas.”

Dean raises an impressed eyebrow at the older couple. “Oh yeah? Vegas, huh?” He mentally
wrestles with himself for a short second, then decides to toss out a little scrap of honesty. “I’ve
been trying to get Sammy to come with me for ages. I feel like it could be a yearly thing,
y’know?”

“It’s a lovely city,” Simon waxes nostalgically. “Just lovely. Glitz, glamour, the thrill of a risky
gamble.”

Estelle rolls her eyes at his dramatics. “Just don’t give Sam free reign over the slot machines. Trust
me,” she warns, tilting her head at her husband. “I tell this one ‘bon chance’, and he comes back
having lost eight thousand dollars.” Estelle laughs mildly at her own anecdote and Simon just nods
bashfully along at the teasing like he’s being chastised for forgetting the milk.

Dean’s eyes, however, go wide at the huge chunk of change and he catches Kat’s equally stunned
gaze at his side. Rich people.

“We had to fly coach that entire month,” Simon chimes in. “Isn’t that right, my darling?”

“I still haven’t forgiven him,” Estelle says, but they share a knowing look and then a short, chaste
kiss.
And it’s kinda sweet, Dean guesses, but it’s also kinda completely out of his purview. “Nah, don’t
worry,” he says to Estelle, edging the topic back to something he’s comfortable with. “Blackjack’s
more Sam’s game anyhow. He says the odds are better. Something to do with the math of it, I
think.”

“But not your game?” Kat asks lowly, subtly laying her fingers on his forearm.

“Please,” he brags, a little puffed up at the contact. “If I’m anywhere, I’m at a poker table. What’s
the point of trying to go against the house when you can play the saps across the felt instead?”

Kat looks suitably impressed at his bravado and Dean takes the opportunity to finish off his beer.
He even spins the bottle flat on the table once it’s empty, savoring Kat’s stifled amusement as it
lands on her. “So what made you choose a place like this instead of Vegas?” he tosses out, letting
the small talk distract the other two while he carefully eyes the woman next to him.

“Well, I actually like this place very much,” Simon contradicts him peacefully. “Maybe even
better than Nevada.”

His attention snaps back across the table as he finally spots his opening. “What? No, c’mon,”
Dean says, nudging conspiratorially at Kat’s shoulder. “Not with all the stuff that’s off around
here, right?” He lets his bracelet click against the wood of the table as he leans forward over his
wrist. “I mean, you haven’t noticed anything weird with the staff, have you?”

“What do you mean, ‘weird’?” Kat asks, amused.

Dean knows what he looks like and he’s noticed Kat noticing what he looks like and he isn’t
above intentionally pouting to play up some of his better features. “Y’know, weird,” he says,
folding his arms over the table and scooting in a little closer. “Secretive. Suspicious.”

“Um, no,” Kat lets out on a confused laugh. “Sorry, but I haven’t been scoping out any of the
staff.”

“Oh,” Estelle chirps excitedly, like she’s come to some massive realization. “Is this about the
ghosts?”

Kat blinks in surprise, flicking her eyes to the older woman and then back to him. “I’m sorry,
what?”

“Dean here mentioned that he and Sam thought this place might be haunted,” Simon informs her
blithely. “Did you boys find any grim spectres, by the way?”

Dean lets out an awkward huff of air. “Uh, not yet,” he says, trying to sound casual and average
while still saving face in front of Kat. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t quite hit any of his targets.

Thankfully, he’s saved from any embarrassment by Vivian stepping through the door. “Hey,
y’all,” she says pleasantly, and Kat discreetly slips her fingers from his arm. “I didn’t miss lunch,
did I?”

There’s a smattering of half-hearted replies to the contrary and Simon stands up from his chair to
make room for her at the end of the table they’ve clustered around.

Vivian places a protesting hand over her chest at the gesture. “Oh, no,” she says, “you don’t have
to get up for me.”

But Simon simply waves in polite dismissal. “Don’t trouble yourself about it,” he reassures her. “I
have a dog-eared book on my end table that’s calling my name. I was just waiting for an excuse to
get back to it.” He grants the rest of them a tight smile and then drops a kiss onto the top of
Estelle’s head. “Have fun chatting, dear,” he says warmly, and toddles off back to their room.

Dean waits for Vivian to finish putting together a wimpy-looking veggie sandwich of her own
before starting in on his second covert interrogation. “Beau’s not joining us?” he asks
nonchalantly, trying not to telegraph his suspicions.

Luckily, Vivian doesn’t seem to pick up on it at all. “Nah,” she says, slipping into Simon’s vacant
chair and shifting around on it until she’s comfortable. “He isn’t feeling well after our dinner in the
gardens last night. Food was a little too rich, you know?”

Great—Dean can’t help but sarcastically think to himself. Without Beau and Simon, that means
it’s just him and the rest of the Steel Magnolias. All the men, and Sam, are out there handling their
business, which leaves all the women, and him, to sit here and gossip. The very idea of it tweaks
at him like ants crawling under his skin. He should have been the one driving around and probing
the witnesses today. After all, Sam would’ve fit right in here with the other housewives. Dean
silently simmers for a little bit and vows to make at least three more public references to Sam being
his bitch before the week is up. Maybe four. Just to make sure that nobody gets the wrong idea.

“It wasn’t food poisoning, was it?” Estelle asks while Dean’s still busy privately sulking.

“Oh, god no,” Vivian assures her kindly, “he gets an upset stomach every time, practically. I
basically just plan for it at this point. The man can’t handle a single bite of Cajun food, but boy
does he love it.”

The rest of the girls chuckle a little bit, but Dean simply narrows his eyes at the flimsy alibi. Beau
hasn’t shown his face since that very first night—a fact Dean is hyper aware of since the guy had
climbed to the top of their suspect list—and claiming to be sick is just mundane enough to be a
believable cover. It isn’t too much to go on, but it isn’t entirely not suspicious either. Dean’s
willing to take any shot he can under the circumstances.

“Y’know, speaking of gardens,” he states with over-the-top cheerfulness. “I’ve heard this place is
just gorgeous when it rains. That’s gotta happen around, what—late March, early April? They say
the trees get all…wet and…dewy.” Dean’s just running his mouth here. He has absolutely no
fucking clue what he’s talking about, but hopefully nobody at the table will call him on it. “Is that
true, Viv?”

Vivian pulls a tomato slice from her sandwich and nibbles on it plain. “I wouldn’t know,
unfortunately,” she says, a little wistfully. “That sounds beautiful though.”

Dean grins a little too sharp and goes in for the kill. “I thought you said you guys usually came
here in the spring?”

“Well, we do,” she replies. Completely guileless. “In May. It’s our anniversary.”

And his last feasible lead slips through his fingers like sand. “Right,” he says dully, the thrill of
success snatched away at the very last second. “Which is why you’re here now.”

Vivian nods, chewing contentedly on her poor excuse for a lunch, and then changes the subject,
roping Kat into a mind-numbing conversation about makeup or nail polish or some other girly shit.

And Dean’s forced to sit there and listen to the whole damn thing.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Sam doesn’t get back until the sun’s almost completely set, deep rays of russet orange creeping in
beneath the gauzy curtains of their room’s window and casting long fingers of shadow over the
small tabletop Dean’s planted himself at.

“Anything?” he lobs at Sam the second he steps through the door.

Thankfully, his brother doesn’t look too upset at being accosted by work right away. “Not really,”
he answers without missing a beat. “Apparently the second guy had a real complicated marriage.
He and his wife were trying to avoid a separation so they vacationed here to ‘rekindle’ things.”
Sam unzips his hoodie one-handed and exhaustedly tugs the thing off his arms. “But one thing led
to another,” he continues, flinging the heap of brown cloth onto the center of the bed, “they fought
a lot, and she stormed off after an argument in the middle of the day and never came back.” Sam
steps into the bathroom, and from the clinking sound of it, he’s filling up a glass of water in the
sink. “At first he thought she’d left him,” he says, his voice raised a little louder than usual to be
heard over the running faucet, “but when he got back home all her stuff was still there.”

Dean tilts back in his chair just for something to do, letting the two front legs lift off the carpet.
“He figure she drowned too?”

Sam steps into sight again and leans against the doorframe. “Or got eaten by a gator,” he shrugs,
raising the glass to his lips.

“Something got her alright.” Dean thumps back onto four legs and rubs a hand over his eyes,
already getting sick of the near-misses. Every time they try and look into a new angle on this, they
end up with less than they had before. “So what have we got?” he asks hopelessly. “Usually two
people go missing, sometimes it’s one. Mostly it’s in the spring, but not always. There’s no pattern
as to time of day or behavior of the couple beforehand…” He places the back of his hand against
his overheated forehead, letting the cool metal of his ring give him something to focus on.
“Seriously, man. What have we got here?”

Sam lets out a huge sigh, his t-shirt stretching tightly over his chest as he inhales. “It’s the hotel. It
has to be related to the hotel. That’s the only thing the victims have in common.” He tips his drink
back and finishes it off in a few, long swallows. Dean doesn’t watch his smooth throat bob at the
action. “So what did you find out today?” Sam asks once he’s back to center, gesturing at him
with the empty glass

“Not much more than you,” Dean admits once his tongue starts working again. “All of the main
staff was working on all of the dates the vics disappeared because of course they were,” he says
acerbically, “it’s their freaking job. Vivian and Beau were here for some of the dates, but not all.”
Dean pinches at the bridge of his nose in mild frustration and tries to will his sudden headache
away. “Unless you think one or both of them were driving all the way back here to lurk around
the swamps for some reason?”

Sam twitches his nose. Cute. “Yeah, that’s pretty weak. We could make that argument against
anyone.” He absently fiddles with his glass for a moment, then walks past Dean to deposit it onto
the far dresser. He doesn’t turn back around though. He just runs his fingertips through the
remaining moisture, leaving his back to him. “What did you find out about Kat?” he asks,
thoroughly failing at being subtle.

Dean rolls his eyes, even if his brother can’t see it. “She loves horseback riding and long, deep
conversations that last until dawn,” he jokes dryly.
Sam cuts him a glance over his shoulder. “Dean, I’m being serious.”

“She was never even a suspect, Sam,” he says, spreading his palms between them. Open and
explanatory. “What do you want from me? She hasn’t noticed anything weird.”

“I’m just asking,” his brother mutters petulantly under his breath, turning back to his finger
painting.

Dean lets him have his little attempt at self-respect for a bit. Even if they’re both just stalling. “You
know we’re gonna have to check out this bayou ourselves.”

Sam finally rolls his head back, disgruntled, and flips around to stare at him. At least it’s a
reaction. “And go after this thing completely unprepared with no idea of how to fight it?” he asks
flatly.

“We’ll bring salt, silver, iron, and flares. Cover our bases.” Dean thumbs at his nose, trying to
fight back the dawning niggle of self-awareness saying that this isn’t the best plan he’s ever had.
“I mean, worst comes to worst, decapitation oughta do the trick.”

“Dude,” Sam protests, “what if it needs a golden knife to kill it, like a banshee? Or a fireplace
poker dipped in the blood of a virgin goat? Or some kind of complicated ritual we have to cast out
loud?”

Dean pushes up from his seat, determined to put a stop to this before his brother can work himself
up to a fit. “Fine,” he says plainly, “then give me a better idea.”

Sam blinks at the simple request, like he didn’t expect Dean to capitulate so easily. Good. Now
he’s the one turned around on his ass. But Sam’s expression doesn’t take long to shift from mildly
bewildered to contemplative. And then all the way to deeply focused. Dean half expects steam to
pour out of his ears. “It has to be a member of the staff,” he says eventually, then he twists his
head to glance over at their closed laptop. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Dean nods, musing over the suggestion. “Okay, you want me to interrogate everyone again? I
could try really putting the screws to ‘em, see what falls out.” He crosses his arms over his chest
and casually travels the rest of the way over to his brother. Spitting distance. “That our plan?” he
asks, close enough that the bare skin of Sam’s arm is steadily warming his own sleeve.

Sam wets his lips in concentration and shakes his head. “Maybe we’re looking at this all wrong,”
he says to himself. Then he pins Dean with a eureka kind of look. “We still haven’t checked
maintenance workers,” he says emphatically, pushing past him to settle into his vacated spot at the
table. “Employees who don’t work here full-time, but still might match the dates of the
disappearances.”

Dean watches Sam buzz around on the laptop, so in his element, and he can’t help the subdued
glow of affection at the familiar sight. “Okay then, College Boy,” he finally relents, “find me the
schedule of a maintenance guy.”

Sam’s lips tip up at the corners, always so pleased at being acknowledged, then he abruptly seems
to remember something and lets out a stifled groan. “We can’t right now,” he says grudgingly.

“What? Why?”

Sam just gestures at the window, and at the slowly fading light bleeding in through the curtains.

Ugh. That’s right. Their carriage ride is tonight. Dean almost forgot.
He lets out a sigh and slips a hand over the base of his brother’s neck, massaging at the muscle as
his mind goes over more important things…and Sam takes too long to remember that he’s
supposed to shake him off. Now that nobody is watching.

“Don’t worry, Sammy,” he says, picking up on the obvious tension. “We’ll do some more
research tonight and figure this thing out by tomorrow. Friday at the latest.”

But the reassurance doesn’t seem to help. “We’re running out of time on this, Dean,” Sam reminds
him stiffly, and the words ring true. Dangerously, heartbreakingly true. Dean’s not sure what
that’s about.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Nothing more romantic than staring at the ass-end of a horse for an hour,” he gripes through his
teeth, once they’re on their second go-round of the grounds. Dean had no idea this stupid fucking
carriage ride was permanent.

“Hey, come on,” Sam says, jostling at his shoulder, “look at the bright side. At least it’s better than
your face.”

Yeah, right. Like Dean’s gonna take that bait. “Please,” he snarks, “you should be so lucky.”

Sam ducks his head as he chuckles at Dean’s ego, a soft little smile tugging at the edges of his lips.
And the dork actually looks like he’s having fun. Sam and his affinity for smelly, allergy-inducing
animals. Dean will never get it.

They’ve been circling the hotel for what feels like forever, the old-fashioned metal carriage seat
rattling under their asses with each continuous step of the horse’s hooves. Plus, it’s cold. Cold
enough that Sam put on an actual jacket over the dumb hoodie he never takes off. Although,
conversely, it’s put them both in a pretty good mood. Like the forced captivity of it all gives them
something to rail against together. Even if they’re just doing so with sarcasm. Or maybe it’s simply
the needed break from work—though they’re secluded enough that they could probably work, if
they wanted to. The driver’s completely shut into his own little carriage box so they can have
some romantic alone time. They don’t actually need it, but whatever. Dean’s not gonna complain
about some actual privacy. Sam either, if he had to guess.

He tips his head back against the rim of the carriage seat and lets his gaze drift over the bruised
yellows and purples of twilight, dusk gradually settling over the dark silhouettes of the willow
trees. There’s a sliver of a crescent moon peeking out between the flat, skinny clouds, but it
doesn’t give off much light against the encroaching darkness. It’s pretty—he’ll give it that—but
Dean’s never really been one for scenery. He’s more of a stars guy.

“I’d never take a date here,” Dean informs his brother after a lazy few minutes, just to make
conversation. “She’d be bored to death before we ever got to the good stuff.”

Sam lets out a soft huff of amusement through his nose. “Yeah, right,” he teases, obviously trying
to egg him on. “I bet you wouldn’t even know what to do with a girl in a place this classy. I mean,
your standard bar hookups are what they are, but I’m sure as hell not impressed with how fast you
can eat hot wings. And I bet no woman who can actually spell the word ‘sober’ would be either.”

And Sam may be an obnoxious dick, but at least it’s giving them something fun to talk about,
even if it’s just them taking easy shots at each other. “I know exactly what I’m doing,” Dean says
defensively, like he’s positively scandalized by the attack on his reputation. Although maybe he’s
playing it up a bit for the humor. “In any situation. With any woman. Ever.”

His brother grins, his eyes darting mischievously back and forth under his bangs. “Prove it,” he
says.

Two harmless little words that sink Dean’s stomach down somewhere around his ankles. His
fingers suddenly go kinda numb and his lungs stop working for maybe half a second before his
brain kick-starts back on and he manages to get himself under some semblance of control again.
“Seriously?” he asks, heaping on all his bluster to hide the strange flutter of nerves in his belly.
“You want the full-on Dean Winchester charm? Lesser women have fainted.”

“Not really a ringing endorsement of your seduction skills,” Sam tosses back, that razor-sharp wit
not dulled in the slightest by his time away. It would be goddamn infuriating if Dean hadn’t
missed it so much.

He swallows hard and valiantly ignores the blaring voice in his head that’s screaming that he
shouldn’t be doing this. Why is he doing this? Why is Sam letting him do this? Whatever—he
forcefully convinces himself. It’s fine. They’re just fucking around to kill time. “Well, first thing’s
first,” Dean says smoothly, bulldozing over the more rational parts of his brain until they shut up.
And then filling in the remaining crater of good sense with wet cement. “You’ve already agreed to
a date with me in this scenario, so I assume you saw my face and were instantly dazzled by my
extreme handsomeness.”

“Do you even go on dates?” Sam asks through a snigger of condescending laughter. “I thought
most of your romancing consisted of the time it took to get from the bar back to her place.”

“Alright. Listen here, you little shit.” Dean hooks an elbow around his brother’s neck and tugs
him into a half-playful chokehold. “I’ve been romancing since you were still playing with dolls.”

Sam lets out a scoff and wraps his fingers around Dean’s sleeve. “Army men are not dolls,” he
says adamantly, but doesn’t push Dean away from where they’re still flush. So Dean relaxes his
arm, letting it rest over his brother’s shoulders until Sam stiffens at the unexpected touching. “Uh,
Dean?”

“This is my first move,” he explains without missing a beat, and Sam settles a little once he
realizes what’s going on. Yup, nothing weird about this at all. Dean’s just laying out his process.
There’s no reason for his heart to suddenly start skipping a few beats at Sam’s closeness, or for his
skin to grow warm in every single place they’re touching. No reason for Sam to melt into his side
like he belongs there forever. It’s just a little demonstration. That’s all. So his brother can pick up
some of his expert tips on ladykilling. The rest of all that must just be his overzealous imagination.
Dean clears his throat to dispel the awkwardness before continuing. “If I think you might be cold,”
he clarifies, “I’m gonna go right for the arm around the shoulder. Trust me. Way better than asking
if you want my jacket or something. Total rookie move.”

“Not necessarily,” Sam murmurs stubbornly. “I think it’s kinda gentlemanly.” Dean snorts at his
brother’s transparency. He probably offered his jacket to Jessica on their very first date. The kid’s
too polite for his own good.

“Nah.” Dean jostles him a little, then lets his thumb relax against Sam’s upper arm, absent-
mindedly rubbing it in little circles through the fabric of his coat. “Women like initiative. I put my
arm around you like this, I’m solving your problem before you can even ask. Plus, if you ain’t
actually cold, it still gives us an excuse for the contact.”

Sam sits silently as he digests Dean’s advice. “Y’know,” he says eventually, “I might be a little tall
for this.”

“Shh. I’m pretending you’re Lisa Leslie.”

His brother snorts out a laugh, then slouches down a little further in his seat anyway, bringing
them even and relieving a bit of the strain in Dean’s shoulder. “What next?” he asks, quietly
amused.

Dean sucks at his teeth as he thinks. He’s never really had to parcel it out, step by step, before.
“Uh,” he says, “next I’d probably try to get you talking. You let a chick go off, she’s gonna take
the reins and run. All you gotta do is smile and nod, and you’re golden.” He tosses Sam a playful
wink. “Plus, it makes it less likely she’ll ask you anything about you. Which, in our line of work,
Sammy, is a very good thing indeed.”

“I dunno,” Sam breathes after a hesitant moment. “Kind of lonely, don’t you think?”

Dean’s mind tugs loose from its moors at his brother’s words, slowly drifting over the bittersweet
memories of his time in Cape Girardeau. How Cassie’s perfume would linger on the bedsheets for
hours afterwards, even though she’d have left for class at the crack of dawn. How the sunlight
would curl through her hair. The way the tears would collect at the corners of her eyes when she
yelled at him, but never actually fall.

“Only game in town, Sam,” he says, a little too belatedly.

Sam doesn’t seem to catch the slip though, too lost in his own shit to pay much attention to
Dean’s. His brother’s gaze drops to the footwell of the carriage, distant and a little sad. Sam never
told Jessica anything. At least, that’s what he’d implied on that bridge—back during the whole
Woman in White thing. The obedient son for the first time in their lives.

Dean intentionally changes the subject before the hypocrisy can eat away at him from the inside
out. “So, c’mon,” he nudges, rubbing his knuckles up and down Sam’s shoulder. “Tell me about
yourself, darlin’.” Sam flushes at the nickname, pulled right back into the present, and Dean revels
in his brother’s embarrassment. “You from around here? Dig your family? What’s your favorite
type of cat?”

“My favorite type of cat?” Sam laughs quietly, high and thin. The way he does when he really
means it. “What? That’s seriously your best line?”

Dean grins right back. A thousand watts. “Chicks fucking love cats, dude. Swear to god. Do not
ask me why.”

Sam tosses him a look like Dean is about to regret what comes out of his mouth next, one of those
scheming, too-smart-for-you Sam looks. “You wanna know more about me, huh?” He settles
back against his side with a sly grin. “Well I am dating you, right?” his brother asks, clearly
rhetorical. “So…I’m guessing my personality is a mixture of Daddy issues, an extremely low
sense of self-worth, and an overactive libido?”

“Ahh,” Dean sighs happily. “The trifecta.”

Sam snorts and shoves teasingly back against his shoulder. “You’re a dick.”

But Dean grins like a shark, leaning in and goading Sam on with a playful snap of his teeth.
“Yeah, but that’s exactly the part of me you’re interested in, right?”

His little brother goes suddenly, painfully still at his words, and Dean turns off faster than a faulty
light switch. Shit. Shit. He crossed a line there. No, not just crossed. He went so far over the line
that he’s almost all the way back around to getting it in his sights again. Dean slides his arm from
Sam’s shoulders with an awkward cough and settles it back at his own side. Trying to play it like
he hasn’t absolutely lost his mind.

“Y’know,” he says, backpedaling pathetically, “…if you were a chick.”

“Right. Yeah. I got it.” Sam clears his throat quietly and they slip into silence again.

What the fuck just happened? What the fuck is it about Louisiana? Must be something in the air.
Yeah, that’s it. It’s probably something they’re pumping in through the vents of the hotel that’s
affecting him all romantic-like. Spanish fly or some shit. To get him all riled up. Like Vegas does
with all the extra oxygen in the casinos. Creepy freaking couples resorts.

And maybe it’s only in his head because Simon had mentioned Las Vegas earlier today, but the
more Dean thinks about it, the more he’s positive that that’s what’s going on here. It would
explain everything. The strange urges he’s been feeling this entire week.

A fleeting, guilt-soaked memory of his morning shower suddenly flits through his mind and he
almost cries at the reprieve. That’s what that must have been about. It was just some kind of forced
aphrodisiac he’s been breathing in the past few days. Dean didn’t do anything wrong or sick or
depraved. It was the hotel. Trying to bump up their online reviews by ensuring their guests were
too busy fucking to cast a critical eye over the accommodations. It was just the hotel.

Dean slumps back in his seat, saved by the fucking metaphorical bell, and closes his eyes in sheer
relief.

“Um, Dean?” Sam ventures tentatively, shooting a glance at his suddenly boneless posture. “You
okay?”

“I’m fantastic, little brother,” Dean lets out on a relaxed sigh. “Never been better.”

“Oh,” Sam says, and he shuts up after that. But he keeps giving him confused little looks for the
rest of the ride.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean wakes up via an open-handed punch to the chest. He bleats out a garbled sound and
scrambles up against the headboard, eyes open and adrenaline spiking and muscles tense for
whatever fight has just fallen into his lap. But it’s just Sam again. Goddamn fucking asshole Sam
who was supposed to go to sleep and stay there now that Dean’s close enough to cuddle.

His outline is still a little blurry and gray in the darkness, but from what Dean can make out, he’s
twisted around again, his lower body tangled in the sheets as he moans something
incomprehensible and flails a limb every once in a while. And Dean’s own fist is tucked up under
Sam’s chest, he realizes belatedly. Like he’d had an arm around his brother in sleep and it got
caught underneath him when Sam started rolling away. Or maybe it’s just a coincidence. He
wraps his left hand around his brother’s bicep for leverage and carefully tugs his right back.

“No!” Sam wails at the removal, thrashing around like a shark attack victim. “No, no, please no!”

“Sam!” Dean barks, uncaring of being gentle this time. “Dude, wake the fuck up.”
He gets a solid hit against his brother’s chest—payback, really, for earlier—and Sam springs to
alertness, his pupils contracting just enough to actually register Dean before his entire face
crumples into an expression of pain. And it’s enough to set him back on his heels, because Sam
doesn’t look like he does after one of his regular nightmares. He looks like he did when he’d
dragged them to their old house in Lawrence. “Shit,” Sam whispers, strained and embarrassed.
Clearly thinking along the same lines. He drops his head into his hands, physically trying to
massage the headache away despite knowing how little good it’ll do.

Dean’s irritation immediately bleeds out and he reflexively reaches up to help before hesitating
halfway there. Not sure how far his brotherly concern should stretch while they’re both in bed
together. Like lovers—something shameless and unhelpful whispers in his mind. Dean mentally
bats it away. “You okay?” he says, instead of actually touching his brother.

Sam lets out a bitter, hurt sound from behind his fingers. “Not really.”

Dean feels another yearning urge to touch, to cradle Sam’s face between his palms and soothe the
pain away himself, but he stays strong. “What did you see?” he asks softly, blowing the dust off
his bedside manner. “Was it me again?”

Sam shakes his head shallowly. “No,” he says, and Dean shoves back the flicker of jealousy at
being replaced, even subconsciously.

“Then what, man? Clowns or something?”

“No, Dean it wasn’t—” Sam rolls his eyes a bit, then winces harshly as it worsens the pounding in
his head. “It wasn’t a nightmare,” he mutters firmly. “It was a vision.” A vision. He says it like
he’s never been more sure of anything in his life.

“No, it wasn’t,” Dean says reassuringly.

Sam just glares at him as best he can through his headache.

And Dean folds quicker than a fish with a jack high. He can’t stand it when Sammy’s hurting.
“Okay,” he says indulgently. Intent on playing along just to placate the kid. “Why don’t you tell
me about what you saw?”

Sam flings him a side-eye like he knows what Dean’s doing, but spills his guts all the same.
“There weren’t enough details for me to pick up on,” he admits, reluctant, because he knows it
weakens his argument. “I didn’t even see her face.”

“Her?” Dean asks. And suddenly it’s like they’re young again. Like they’re having one of their
old, whispered conversations in the middle of the night, voices smothered low enough that they
won’t wake their dad in the other bed. Just the two of them, cocooned from the world in the quiet
rustle of sheets and the soft, warm dark.

Sam isn’t in a desperate rush to explain this time. Not like a few weeks ago when he was fluttering
around the motel room trying to pack up everything they owned and shove Dean out the door in
under five minutes. He just sounds sad—like he knows he’s already too late. “The woman in my
vision,” he says dully. “She was sleeping in bed with her girlfriend.”

Dean shoves down the automatic joke that tries to slip its way out of his mouth. It isn’t the fucking
time or place for it.

Sam lets out a long, shaky breath. “She leaned over to touch her shoulder,” he says, swallowing
thickly around the words in his throat, “to wake her up.” There’s a very long pause before his
brother speaks again. Dean almost thinks Sam won’t, until he does. “She killed her,” he whispers
numbly. “Will kill her. Somehow.” He slams his eyes shut and clenches his jaw. “Just by touching
her skin.”

And he doubts it’s one of Sam’s super-freaky death premonitions, but it’s a horrifying thought
nonetheless. Like some macabre version of Anna Paquin from that X-Men movie. He can see
why his brother’s so shaken by it.

“And—I don’t know—” Sam continues. “I guess I was still kinda dreaming or something.” He
pulls in a harsh breath. “I thought—” His voice breaks off before he can finish the sentence, from
sleep or emotion Dean’s not sure, but he clearly isn’t going to press on.

“And you thought you’d—” Dean flaps his hand to vaguely complete the thought. “By touching
me?”

Sam nods roughly, like he agrees it’s a stupid thing to be afraid of, but he still curls his hands into
fists against his thighs. Subtle and nervous, like he thinks Dean won’t be able to see in the fuzzy
darkness if he does it slow enough.

He reaches out to cover his brother’s clenched hands with his own before he can think twice, skin
on skin, ignoring Sam’s terrified flinch until he eventually settles a few moments later. Neither of
them is getting smoked, not tonight at least, and Dean can’t have his little brother so hung-up on
his own neuroses that he’s afraid to accidentally brush against him. They won’t be able to hunt
that way.

Dean finally gives into the want that’s been pulling at him all night and lets his hands travel up to
Sam’s wrists, braceleting them so he can soothingly stroke his thumbs over his brother’s forearms.
Sam has visions about his own life—people he’s loved and places he’s lived in—not random
lesbians halfway across the country. He just needs to calm down a little, get some distance from
the shock of the nightmare until he can realize that himself.

Dean takes a deep breath and focuses on putting this thing to bed. “You see anything about her at
all?”

Sam shakes his head again. “She was blonde,” he says, defeated. “I didn’t see her face.”

“Nothing about the room?” he asks as a final effort, not really expecting a useful answer.

“No. It was pretty…nondescript.”

Dean is silent for a long time before he finally puts words to what they’re both already thinking.
“Then there’s nothing you can do about it, right?”

“I know,” Sam says quietly. And it’s the most pitiful little escape of sound that Dean’s ever heard.
His brother doesn’t say anything more, just turns away from him and settles back down onto his
side of the bed. The broad valley of his back a rigid, unforgiving barrier between them. Dean feels
a distressing tug at his heart at how seriously he’s taking this.

Sam lies there for a while, not even trying to pretend he’s fallen back asleep. It barely looks like
he’s even breathing at all. Dean tries to let him be for a handful of minutes, to let him have the
privacy or peace or self-castigation that his painful stillness is hinting at, but Sam’s shoulder
trembles just the slightest bit—something no one would be able to catch if they weren’t looking
for it—and Dean slowly reaches out to wrap his hand over the minor twitch. Sam lets out a little,
punched half-breath the instant he makes contact, so Dean smooths his palm over the rest of his
arm. Soothingly trails down the round of his shoulder, over the fabric of his t-shirt sleeve, and
down across warm skin until he’s got a gentle hold on his brother’s elbow.
“I’m sorry,” Sam murmurs into the pillow covering half his face. “It’s dumb.”

Dean just tugs at his arm softly, more a suggestion than a command, and Sam rolls over so easily
you’d think he’d yanked with all his strength. He’s got him wrapped up against him, his little
brother’s face smooshed into the bend of his neck, before he even realizes this was what he’d been
trying to do. His body automatically falling into old patterns. Like when they were kids.

Because they used to sleep just like this, tangled up in that one bed they’d been allotted while their
dad took the second. Sam had sporadic nightmares as a kid too. Hell, Sam’s pretty much had
nightmares all his life. This was how they used to sleep every night for years.

But things aren’t as innocent now as they were back then, when his brother was half his height
and could still be securely tucked under Dean’s arm. No. Now, Sam is heavy on top of him—
tangible and real—and indecently flush all along the length of his frame. A solid, comforting
weight pressing Dean into the feather-soft mattress beneath them. And he’s sleep-warm, his body
shifting slightly with every breath and minute adjustment as he nuzzles further into him, seeking
out every bit of comfort Dean can provide. Sam’s slim hips cradled between his own, just the
slightest twitch keeping things from becoming something else entirely.

“Sorry,” Sam whispers again, into the sensitive skin of his neck this time. And Dean has to clamp
down tight on every single muscle to suppress the shiver that tries to ripple its way across his
body. He must be ticklish or something.

“Shut up, kiddo,” he whispers in return, once he’s found his voice again, but the softness in his
tone relays the toothless nature of the jibe. “Go back to sleep.”

And wonder of goddamn wonders, Sam actually does. Easy and peaceful and uninterrupted as
long as he's safe in Dean’s arms.
 Thursday

Dean stares down at the slim transom lift over the inner window of Le P’tit Bec’s basement,
crosses his arms contemplatively over his chest, and arrives at his conclusion. “Dude, there is no
way we’re fitting in there.”

Sam, as usual, ignores him. “I can do it,” he murmurs, stepping a few feet to the left to examine
the small window from another angle.

He gives his not-so-little brother a long look up and down, hoping that the slant to his expression
radiates enough disbelief to complement the sarcasm in his tone. “Yeah, okay, Jolly Green,” he
says derisively.

Sam doesn’t even deign to reply, he just cranes his neck to the other side and a tiny little furrow
appears between his brows as he works out the logistics in that ridiculous brain of his. Dean, for
his part, just sits back and waits it out. There’s no use in interrupting Sam when he’s all Adderall-
focused like this.

The two of them had finally managed to hit on one stroke of luck, late the night before. And it was
about goddamn time. Thanks to a bit of non-sanctioned, digital rummaging through the hotel’s
servers, Sam had managed to pull up all the filed schedules of the hotel’s on-call workers.
Exterminators and repairmen and plumbers and the like. A few hours’ worth of cross-checking
revealed that the only employee who was on the job often enough to match all the dates of the
disappearances was a D. Hebert, Boiler Repairman. They’ve got no smacking clue if he’s actually
working today or anytime soon, but a couple of well-placed questions and an Alexander Hamilton
slipped to one of the bellmen after lunch led them right here—so it ended up being a win, overall.

Sam finally seems to come to some kind of conclusion and cracks his knuckles with a shallow nod
of his head. “Okay,” he says, adorably determined, “keep a look-out.”

Dean does, because he’s a team player and all that jazz, but fixing one eye on the far hallway isn’t
gonna distract him from adding his own running commentary. “You’re gonna get stuck like
what’s-his-face.” He absently smacks his hand against his brother’s lower back, urging Sam to fill
in the blanks for him. “The cartoon. That fat little bear guy.”

Sam does a terrible job of holding back an amused snort, even as he’s trying to wriggle into the
small space. “Winnie the Pooh?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Dean says. “My point being, you’re gonna get stuck and I’m gonna be
the one who has to yank you out again.” He gives in to a little idle curiosity, casting a discerning
eye over his brother’s physique, and then amends his statement. “Or maybe they’ll have to take
down a wall,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

“Well you’re the one who insisted on breaking in,” Sam grunts as he manages to angle and twist
his shoulders through. Dean has no idea how he did it without unhinging every single one of his
joints, but after that, it’s smooth sailing. Sam pulls the rest of himself inside without any trouble—
because he’s scrawny as an alley cat south of his ribs—slinking in through the window like he’s
got no spine and landing on the other side with a muted thump.

There’s a scuffle of sneakered feet, an echoing click, and then Sam swings the door open from the
other side, one elbow resting against the doorframe as he pins Dean with an insufferable look.
“What was that you were saying?” he asks smugly. It doesn’t suit him.
Dean pushes past his brother to take point, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a you were
right. “Well, who could’ve known that you were half ferret?” he says instead, pissy.

Sam flashes him an unimpressed look at the weak comeback, but thankfully holds his tongue as he
follows Dean down the narrow wooden stairs in the dark. The steps creak ominously with every
placement of their feet and Dean takes a reflective moment to be glad he’s in the lead. Sam may
only have a handful of pounds on him, but he’d rather that handful be at his back if any of the old
wood decides to give out.

The first thing he notices—the first thing anyone would notice—is that it smells like ass down
here, and it only gets worse the further they go down. Dank and rot-sweet and mildewy, with that
kind of wet mineral scent that stone gets after it’s been exposed to moisture over a long, slow
period of time. Dean blows out a sharp, short breath through his nose to try and expel the odor
clinging to his nostrils, but it doesn’t help in the slightest. Though it does make him feel a little
better that he can hear the faintest wheeze of exhalation from behind him, which means Sam is
breathing through his mouth. At least he isn’t the only one affected.

They finally make it to the basement floor, something Dean only realizes due to the slick concrete
under his boots instead of the slight yield of rotting wood, and he walks right into the room’s
dangling light bulb chain before he can even think to search for it.

“You okay?” Sam asks at his flinch, probably because the surprise of it knocked him right back
into his brother.

“Yeah,” Dean gripes, yanking on the thing until it clicks.

The dim light flickering on does not help to explain away the ghastly smell of the boiler room. It
does, however, allow them to see the cause of it. Wet, moldy grime—the color of pond scum—
appears to be collecting in the far corners of the basement and is even creeping up the sides of the
massive boiler itself. Dean can make out discoloration on the metal casing, dark and splotchy
where the slimy growth is eating away at the outer layer.

And, god, that’s not even mentioning the flies. They’re fucking everywhere. A thick, undulating
curtain of vermin. One million little specks of black darting and swarming around each other and
hovering above the decaying plant matter or fungus or whatever the hell the mold-looking stuff is.
Emitting a low level buzzing he’d initially taken for the hum of machinery.

The level of decrepitude makes the whole place look like it’s been half-underwater for several
years. Or just used as an average truck stop bathroom.

“Jesus,” is all Sam says.

“If there’s something dead in here,” Dean adds with his own flair of disgust, “it might actually be
a relief.”

His brother nods in agreement, jamming the back of his wrist over his nose like that’s actually
gonna do anything. “What are we looking for?” he asks, a little stuffy from the pressure of his
own hand.

Dean takes a couple of wary steps forward, vigorously swatting at any flies that get too close.
“With this smell,” he tosses back distractedly, “maybe a mass grave?” Sam lets out an amused
huff, but he’s only partially joking.

Dean stalks around the edges of the place, only going as far as he’s willing to risk wading through
the insects, but his initial survey doesn’t turn up any kind of corpse. And Sam doesn’t seem to be
having any luck on the far side of the room either.

“I think it’s just whatever’s rotting in here,” his brother calls out, half-heartedly gesturing to the
mold. “I’m not finding anything suspicious.”

Dean breaks out in a massive, full-body shiver as he accidentally brushes up against one of the
slimy walls. “I’m gonna shower for a week.”

Sam nurses a private little smirk, fond, and the dim overhead lighting casts a few heavy shadows
across his cheekbones when he moves his head. It makes his face look more gaunt, more vulpine
than usual. “So, we’ve got a substandard level of cleanliness,” he says, “but I’m not sure what
else.”

“You think this is even a clue?” Dean asks, gesturing to the room at large.

Sam absently pulls in a breath, then coughs a little like he regrets it. “Yeah,” he says uncertainly.
“I mean, I’m definitely cataloguing this as out of the ordinary.”

An unexpected scuffling sound overlaps the tail end of his brother’s sentence and both of them
flick their heads toward the top of the stairs. Instinctual. Like bloodhounds.

They’d left the hallway door ajar, not wanting to accidentally lock themselves in, but Dean almost
wishes they had as a pair of dark shadows pass over the thin beam of light. Just tall and wide
enough to be people.

“Shit,” Dean curses under his breath. “Sammy—” He wildly gestures for Sam to duck back
against the nearest wall and then joins him, pressing himself flat to avoid being seen and racing
through tactics in his head in case their unwanted company happens to be the very monsters
they’ve been hunting. They’re packing their handguns, of course, but the bullets are standard iron.
He’s got no idea what the thing they’re after is vulnerable to, and counting on their rotten
Winchester luck that it’ll coincidentally be iron is a bad bet if Dean’s ever seen one. A few tense
seconds of nothing but their measured breathing is finally broken by a high, girlish giggle and
Dean almost lets out a laugh of his own at the sound. He’d recognize that flirty titter anywhere.
It’s Estelle—and probably Simon now that he thinks about it. “Why the hell would those two be
creeping around somewhere like this?” he asks, mostly annoyed at his own overreaction.

“’Cause we told Estelle this place was haunted,” his brother says, rueful and a little bitter, “and
now she’s investigating because she thinks it’s fun.”

Dean scrubs a hand over his mouth as he thinks of a solution. “Okay, so if they catch us we’ll just
tell them that’s what we’re doing too. Ghost hunt. Only, the fakey civilian kind.”

“So that they’ll feel welcome to join us?” Sam points out in hushed desperation. The door finally
opens wide, a swathe of light cutting through the dingy gloom and throwing the crooked stairs
into high relief. His brother flattens back even further and tips his head to whisper into his ear.
“Dean, we won’t get anything done with them around and we’re already running out of time.”

Estelle and Simon don’t seem to pause or falter in the slightest at the sight of the dank basement,
the wooden steps consecutively creaking under their slow, careful pace. “Well, fine then, Sam,”
he hisses back, following his brother’s lead by trying to scoot them both deeper into the shadows.
“What do you wanna do?”

He shouldn’t have asked.

Because the answer Dean was expecting did not involve Sam’s lips frantically mashed against his
own. The psycho flips over roughly, pins him hard to the wall, and kisses him. Hot and wet and
electric. Sam’s mouth desperate and moving against his. And after a half second of stunned,
frozen shock, Dean freaks out and shoves his brother off of him before he has a conniption fit and
punches his brother off of him.

An affronted, cut-off, “Dude—” is all he gets out before Sam jumps right back in and smothers the
protest again with his own mouth. And it isn’t until Dean’s jammed flat against the disgusting
concrete, Sam’s unyielding hands keeping his wrists at bay while he attacks his face that he finally
gets it. This is Sam’s plan. Make like they’re engrossed in something private so that Nancy Drew’s
grandparents won’t be inclined to hang around. Right. Okay, that makes sense.

Dean tries to wrangle back the racing of his heart as best he can while he’s tasting the inside of his
brother’s mouth. And it’s weird. It’s so fucking weird.

…But not for the reasons it should be, he slowly realizes.

Because, not that Dean had ever really thought about it much before, but somehow he expected
Sam to be more…timid. When it came to stuff like this. Kissing. And…other things. He chokes
back a hysterical sound and wrenches his thoughts toward something safer. If only barely—given
that he’s currently analyzing the way his little brother is kissing him.

It’s just that Sam’s always so freaking shy around women, with the stammering awkwardness and
the weird, nervous charm. Dean didn’t expect this aggression. This savage fury. Hungry teeth and
grasping hands and a solid wall of muscle crushing him into the wall at his back. It’s all hard.
Hard planes rubbing against his chest and hard fingernails digging marks into his shoulders and
hard lips mouthing at his own and hard… Dean swallows nervously and very intentionally does
not think about what else is hard right now. Because it’s just an automatic reaction, alright? Any
guy would go a little half-mast with the way Dean’s being pawed at. And yeah, okay, maybe
‘half-mast’ isn’t exactly the right term to describe the urgent, insistent throbbing in his jeans—but
thankfully, their hips are far enough apart that Sam isn’t any the wiser. Because he may be making
out with his little brother up against the filthy wall of a hotel boiler room, but touching pelvises
would just be indecent.

A quick, furtive glance toward the stairs shows him that Simon and Estelle are still there, and
they’ve spotted them by now. No, wait—not just spotted them. They’re actively watching.

Fucking voyeurs. What is wrong with rich people?

But under the scrutiny, Dean finally mans up and begins to participate too. Because any more of
this limp fish bullshit and Mr. and Mrs. Pennybags are going to be getting a whole different kind
of idea about what’s going on here. And he really doesn’t need to be dealing with concerns about
how his fake boyfriend is treating him on top of everything else.

He reaches out a nervous, shaking hand to tangle in Sam’s hair, tugging him back just enough that
Dean doesn’t feel quite so much like tenderized beef—and ignores the traitorous little sliver of
disappointment at the loss. Then he swallows his goddamn pride, pulls in the deepest breath he’s
ever taken, and actually starts to kiss Sam back. Like a man. Allowing himself the patience and
control to gently suck his brother’s bottom lip between his own. To teasingly skim his tongue over
each bit of kiss-bruised flesh. To show Sam how he does it. To teach his brother what makes all
the women of the lower forty-eight trail after Dean Winchester, begging for more.

Sam trembles in his arms, letting out a tiny, breathy whine at his ministrations—and it’s a good
idea. They need to be more into it. Prove to their pervy audience that they’re all sorts of gay and
crazy about each other. Dean fakes a groan of his own in response, trying not to get too hung up
on how easily it passes through his lips.
The sound seems to spur his brother on though, and Sam growls back as he surges in even further,
caging him in and pinning him like a bug to a board, leaving Dean feeling deliciously restrained.
All smothered moans and broad shoulders and crushing strength as he practically attacks his
mouth. But he also melts at Dean’s every little touch. Shivers when he carefully strokes his fingers
down the length of Sam’s spine. He tilts his head into the hand Dean’s got in his hair like he’s
starving for it. Eagerly following wherever he’s steered, only to nip and bite and bruise when he
gets there. The perfect blend of ferocity and need. And Dean has to actually tilt his head up a little
bit to meet his brother’s lips, closing his eyes as he kinda gets lost in it, but it doesn’t bother him
the way it feels like it should. Because, god, they fit…they fit perfectly. Like no one Dean’s ever
been with before. Like no one else ever will—that treacherous voice in his head whispers. He tries
not let his brain dwell on such a dangerous thought. He can’t.

But the damn cat’s already clawed its way out of the bag, no matter how desperately he tries to
shove it back in. Sam clearly likes giving it hard and getting it back soft, and Dean’s never minded
the opposite, both of them falling so easily into a perfect, symbiotic rhythm. The exact same way
they always do.

Sam finally—it feels like it’s been hours—pulls back with a last lingering kiss, his chest hitching
against Dean’s as they slowly meet each other’s guilty eyes and try to piece themselves together in
the aftermath of what just happened. The insane thing that just happened. The insane, impossible
thing that just happened.

Dean swallows back the taste of him and tries his hardest to not feel like he’s been fucking
ravished.

Estelle and Simon are gone now, when he cuts his curious gaze back to the stairs. They must have
left them to it. Sam’s plan worked.

“Quick thinking,” Dean says too roughly. After a couple false starts.

His brother just blinks down at him, looking like he’s not entirely sure what Dean’s talking about
for a second. Then the engine turns over in his brain. “Yeah,” he says. “That was—yeah.” Sam
doesn’t move away, but neither does Dean.

He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want to even think about what the back of his shirt looks
like, pressed against the grimy wall the way he was.

He tells himself that anyone in their position would have done the same.

Sam’s staring at his mouth again, gaze fuzzy and distracted under his heavy eyelids; and Dean’s
the one who comes to his senses first, pushing his brother back with a firm, careful hand against
the center of his chest. It doesn’t count—he reminds himself. It wasn’t a real kiss. It was just part
of their cover. Like when he and Sam fake a fight to ingratiate one of them to an aloof witness.
They aren’t actually fighting. It’s fake. A ploy. Just like this was. Fake.

“We should, uh—” Dean clears his throat and rubs a hand over his still burning lips. “We should
get back to…”

“Right,” Sam says quietly, finishing his thought for him. But he doesn’t move away.

They’re motionless, the both of them, stuck in some kind of impossible draw—and still two and a
half feet closer than they should be when they’re blindsided by even more unexpected company.

“Hey!” a stringy voice barks out, a shadowy, top-heavy figure lurching out from around one of
the darker corners. “You two!”
Dean barely has enough time for his heart to jump up into his throat and trigger his hands into
frantically shoving his brother away to a respectable distance before he finds himself confronted
by a thick bayou accent and a thinning tuft of red hair, a good half-foot below his eye line. He
blinks a couple of times before realizing that the accent is also wearing a threadbare navy
jumpsuit. A workman’s uniform. Which means this must be the guy they were looking for.
Earlier. Before all the…stuff happened.

He mentally runs screaming from that particular thought and willfully focuses back on the work,
casting a more professional eye over the man who must be D. Hebert, glaring and shifty and
suddenly up in his face.

The first thing that jumps out at Dean is that the man is weirdly pale, the skin of his throat and
wrists catching what little light in the room there is, like one of those pasty cave fish who never
see the sun. On the heels of that, he catalogues the guy’s wide, hunched shoulders and darting
stare that doesn’t ever seem to settle just right. “What’re you two doing down here?” he asks
roughly, stabbing his tongue at the corner of his mouth as he nervously flicks his eyes back up to
the door. “Ain’t no one supposed to be down here.”

Dean takes an intentional breath, forcing himself back on track. “Look, uh…” He glances down at
the man’s filthy namepatch, half-obscured by a dark smear of grease so that he can only make out
the last few letters: nald. “Don,” he guesses. “Look, Don.”

Donald twitches a little bit at his name, still jittery, but focusing his attention on Dean instead of
the door.

“We didn’t mean any harm, okay, buddy?” Dean says calmly, using his best everything’s kosher,
no need to worry about a thing voice. “We didn’t think anyone else would be down here.”

Sam nods in agreement from the few feet away Dean had pushed him, his hands nonthreatening
where they’re obscured by the front pocket of his hoodie. “We didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You can’t be down here,” the guy grumbles again, annoying, like a skipping record. But a
creepy one—Dean amends in his own head. ‘Revolution #9’ played backwards. “Why are you
down here?” Donald asks, suspicious and squinty-eyed. Or maybe the minimal light’s just too
much for him.

Dean makes a grab for Sam’s shoulder as he scrambles for a believable excuse, tugging him back
against his side and ignoring Sam’s curt sigh at being wrenched around so much. “Sorry, it’s
just…my, uh, boyfriend here just loves boilers. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Sam twitches a little at the endearment—and at the ludicrous cover. “Yup,” he says stiffly.

“He’s studying to be a plumber—”

“Repairman,” Sam corrects him quietly.

“A boiler repairman, that’s right. I always forget, don’t I, honey?” He slips an arm around his
brother’s waist, but Sam doesn’t quite seize up the way he expects him to and it throws Dean for a
second. “Um, he wanted to take a look at the…” Dean trails off halfway through his thought,
figuring Donald will catch the gist, and suddenly far too focused on the way Sam feels settled
against him. The way he’d felt pressing him ruthlessly back into the wall. The way he’d felt the
night before, curled up and relaxed in his arms.

“…The boiler?” Donald finishes for him, unsure and probably more confused than not.

“Yup, that’s it,” Dean responds way too loudly, tripping over the guy’s question with how quick
he answers. With how quick he tears his attention away from his brother.

Donald shifts a little anxiously on his feet, glancing between them as if he’s debating whether to
believe them. “It’s your, uh, pretty standard watertube boiler,” he says eventually. “‘Bout five
hundred thousand BTUs.”

“Five hundred thousand,” Sam echoes politely, “you don’t say.”

And, no big surprise here, the simple hint of interest in the guy’s work seems to get him around to
Sam’s side faster than anything. “Yessir,” Donald says, actually smiling a little at the attention. At
least, Dean thinks it’s supposed to be a smile. It’s mostly teeth. “It’s bitty for a hotel this size, but
we only got the ten or so rooms, y’see.”

“Sure I do,” Sam says, doing a much better job than he would at feigning interest. “That’s really
neat.” He slips away from Dean’s hold to walk over to the gigantic boiler dwarfing the room,
playacting at examining the thing like he’s impressed by it, before cutting his attention back to
their suspect. Sharp and subtle and so fucking good at this. No matter how long he’d been away.
Almost as good as Dean. “Hey, can I ask how often you have to be down here for maintenance?
Seems like a boiler this old might be a little…tetchy.”

Donald scritches his grubby fingernails over the patchy, red stubble adorning his cheeks. “I’m
here ‘bout twice a month. Every first week and third week.” He makes his way over to Sam,
utterly charmed, and passing through the swarming flies like he isn’t bothered by them at all. He
lays a dirty hand on the metal like it’s an old friend. “You’ll get some say they should be on call
every week, but it’s a grift. It’s a grift,” he says again, harder. “Them folks’re just tryin’ to get paid
twice as much for doin’ half the amount of work.”

“So you were working here last April, then?” Sam probes, overly casual. Just making
conversation over the stupid boiler.

“Yessir.”

“And the March before that?” he and Sam both ask at the same time. Although Dean’s tone is
maybe a little more pointed than his brother’s.

Donald blinks at Sam, and then Dean, like he’s trying to parcel out which one of them he should
answer first. He chooses Sam—to Dean’s chagrin, but not surprise. “Yeah,” he says simply.
“’Course I was. Been workin’ here for near about ten years now.”

Dean strides over to join them, eager to partake in the questioning. Though he jukes out of the
way of the buzzing insects every time one gets too close to his head. “What about holidays?” he
asks. “You get the week of Christmas off?”

Donald hesitates for a moment, nervously wets his lips again and fully looks Dean up and down
before answering. “Uh…no. I ain’t got one of them fancy vacation packages.”

“So you must have been here for all of those disappearances,” Dean continues, crossing his arms
and flanking the guy’s other side. “That’s kinda spooky, huh? Knowing what happened to all
those hotel guests.”

Donald swallows roughly, noticeably apprehensive by now. “Yeah, well. I never been out into the
bayou. I hear tell it’s dangerous.” He flicks his erratic gaze around the dark room, probably
looking for a good excuse to get away from them. “Look, I really gotta get back to work…”

“Of course,” Sam says immediately, “we’ll get out of your hair.” And Dean has to fight very hard
not to make a crack about the man’s lack thereof. Luckily, Sam’s always been a little more
professional when it comes to that kind of thing. “You still working down here tomorrow?” his
brother asks, light and friendly. “I might wanna come back for a little more shop talk. That is, if
you don’t mind?”

Donald just barely meets his eyes. “Nah, ‘course not,” he says eventually, but firm. Dean might
even half believe him.

They leave him to it and make their way back up the stairs, much easier now that they have a bit
more light.

Though Sam barely waits for them to step back onto the frilly carpeting before he’s back on task,
deliberately closing the door behind them. “That was freaking weird, right?” he asks out the side
of his mouth in case the guy’s listening somehow. They still don’t know what he is, after all.

But Dean’s attention is mostly on pulling in a few glorious gulps of fresh air now that they’re free
of the awful stench. “Not half as weird as the basement itself,” he mutters, once he’s got most of
the mildew out of his nose. “What kind of four-star resort keeps a boiler room like that? I thought
we were gonna get swarmed to death.”

Sam quirks his lips to the side and gets a pensive look on his face, finally leading them away from
the closed door and back in the direction of their room. “What kind of creature attracts insects?” he
asks.

“Nothing I’ve ever heard of.” Dean swats at the side of his face reflexively, still feeling the
phantom tickle of the annoying fuckers even though they’re out of there. “You’re sure that’s the
right angle here?”

“No, not really. They were probably just drawn to the smell.”

That’s a good point. He should have thought of it. “Shifter?” Dean suggests, glancing around to
make sure the hotel hallway is clear of any more rubberneckers. “Their hideouts can get pretty
rank.”

Sam shakes his head distractedly, in full-on deductive mode. “I didn’t see any skin.” He’s so
entirely focused on the problem whirring through his brain that he misses a step and has to skip a
little bit to right himself. “Or, uh, goo.”

Dean lets out a laugh at his brother’s delicacy. And clumsiness. “Yeah, me neither,” he says,
running a hand over the back of his neck and then immediately regretting it when he touches
something damp at his shirt collar. “Though at least we’ve finally got something.” He fruitlessly
tries to shake his fingers out, then thinks better of it and wipes the mystery muck off on the back of
Sam’s hoodie. “We agree that it’s him, right? Fugly Gambit?”

Sam throws him a bitchy look and ducks away from his dirty hand. “Well, I’m not gonna gut a
guy based on a hunch.”

“Pretty strong hunch,” Dean argues.

And his brother does have to concede on that one.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Dean finally feels clean enough to face polite society after three consecutive showers—three
consecutive, thorough showers—while his brother had spent the whole time tapping away at their
laptop.

Sam barely even washed his hands, but to be fair, Sam wasn’t the one who’d been pressed back
against a slimy wall of who-knows-what. He did change all his clothes though. First thing he did
when they got back to the room. Stripped down to his boxer-briefs right there in the main area,
uncharacteristically shameless. Most likely, he was just intent on getting the permeating stink out.

Dean had watched for a little longer than he should have.

He adjusts the cord of his amulet against his still-damp neck and lays back on the bed with a huff,
mostly just biding his time until one of the uppity little bellhops come knocking on their door to
escort them to their newest embarrassment. They’ve both, consciously or subconsciously, dressed
up a little nicer than usual for this one. Okay—they’re not ready for a night out at the Ritz or
anything, but Sam’s got on a brown crew-neck sweater and Dean had thrown on one of his newer
black tees and a matching shirt. Their fancy outdoor dinner thing is tonight. And it’s not like it
matters or anything, but if they’re gonna play their parts, they might as well go whole-hog. No
point in getting caught now, after all. Tripping up at the finish line like a couple of greenhorns.

Dean flicks his eyes over to Sam again—it’s the one spot in the room where his gaze keeps
wanting to settle, apparently—then flushes when his brother finally catches him looking and raises
him an unsure smile. It makes his heart go fluttery in a way he’s not used to and he tears his eyes
away before he can do something stupid. Something stupid like Sam had done back in that boiler
room. Something stupid like Dean not being able to stop thinking about it for one moment since.

The thing is, he’s not used to this new paradigm. He’s out of practice. The very second Sam had
hit puberty, he’d started bricking up sturdier and sturdier walls between them. Practically their
whole lives, Dean’s the one who had to cling ever closer as his brother distanced himself
emotionally. It’s what he’s used to. It’s what they’re both used to. But ever since he’d fucked up
his ticker with a few thousand stray volts, it’s like Sam has taken a friggin’ sledgehammer to those
walls and started to cling back amidst the rubble, and now Dean has to be in charge of stepping
away or they’ll both end up hopelessly tangled together. Like those weirdo trees that twist and
grow around each other until they harden and can’t be pulled apart without dying. He won’t know
how to separate them again if he lets that happen. And Dean has to keep reminding himself, over
and over, why that’s a bad thing. A bad thing that he totally, obviously shouldn’t—doesn’t want.
Doesn’t. Doesn’t—he mentally corrects himself for the thousandth time.

But he can’t quite forget the way Sam had hugged him after that faith healer debacle—latched
onto him, really. Like a particularly needy barnacle. Right there in the mud outside that charlatan’s
tent. Wouldn’t let him go no matter how much Dean tried to pry him off. Although…Dean maybe
hadn’t tried all that hard.

“Um…babe?”

“Yeah,” Dean answers reflexively, fixing his gaze back up at Sam. “What?” His brother is
standing by the open door, one of those red-suited monkeys waiting pleasant and patient on the
other side. It must be time for dinner. He hadn’t even heard the guy knock. “Uh, right,” Dean
says, unsettled at how easily he’s adjusting to this dangerous feeling of contentment. Of selfish
indulgence under Sam’s attention, rare as it used to be. Now, he’s basically swimming in it.
“Lemme just get my coat.”

They mutedly follow the bellhop out into the hotel ‘gardens’, but it’s more trees and grass and
creeping vines than flowers. Pretty enough, Dean figures, but in a more understated way than he’d
been expecting. It’s a surprising relief, actually. Though he’s glad he held back on any
compliments when they finally get to the lighted gazebo they’ll apparently be eating under. It’s
ostentatious—which is a Sam word that Dean’s not quite sure how it found its way into his head
—and proudly planted over an equally gaudy table square underneath. He can only take in the
enormity of the scene in stages, actually afraid his brain might fizzle out otherwise at all the mush.
A lacy, cream tablecloth draped low and elegant, a canopy of heavy-branched trees drooping their
mossy leaves through the gaps in the white wood, tiny lightning bugs dancing over and around
their heads like they’ve been paid to do it—the complete works. And Dean doesn’t even have the
energy to sigh, so he just pastes a tight-lipped smile on his face and goes where he’s directed.

The bellhop quickly pawns them off on the waiter standing at formal attention by the table—who
tilts his head until he and Sam obediently settle into their indicated chairs, share an uneasy glance,
and find that, for once in their lives, they don’t really have much to say to each other.

It’s…awkward more than anything else. It’s not them. What with the fancy table settings and
crystal wine glasses and delicate string lighting draped down around the edges of the gazebo. And
it’s not like Dean’s allergic to a little romance. He’s been romantic with plenty of girls before—
alright, a few. He’s driven them in his Baby to remote make-out spots, overlooking scenic cliffs
and vistas and sunsets. He’s pulled the old ‘let me show you how to hold a pool cue right’ while
wrapped around some coquettish barfly from behind. He’d even tried on the whole perfect
teenage boyfriend thing for size, years ago, with Robin. It’s just that this is almost boring in its
clichéd version of stock sentiment.

Dean would never take Sam to a place like this if he had his druthers. It’s too formal. Too
stereotypical. It’s the kind of setting you bring a date who you’re not invested in enough to be
creative. Plus, Sam gets uncomfortable whenever there’s more than one fork on the table. Hell—
it’s not like Dean has any more clue what to do with the extras than his brother, but he doesn’t
care enough to care. Which is more than he can say for the bundle of self-consciousness sitting
across from him. Sam clears his throat of nerves and seemingly decides to pick a utensil at
random. He glances at the waiter discreetly, but the sky doesn’t come crashing down, so Dean
guesses it’s alright. No, Sam can’t relax in a place like this at all. He needs to feel special, needs to
feel known. Dean would maybe take him to a concert—one of those terrible emo bands he listens
to when Dean is unlucky enough to lose control of the radio dial. Or maybe he’d drive Sam out to
one of his tried-and-true scenic spots with a cooler of beers, but at night. When everything’s dark
and quiet and ribbons of stars dot their way over the inky sky. It’s something they’ve done
hundreds of times before, in a way. Something that’s just for them. That would make it special
enough for his little brother.

Dean shakes his head clear and idly wonders why he’s even dwelling along these hypothetical
lines. The only date they’re gonna be going on is this one. Monster hunt and all.

Their waiter doesn’t waver from his attentive spot at their side no matter how long Dean stares at
him, which is annoying as all get-out. And which, apparently, also means they aren’t gonna be
afforded the luxury of privacy this time. The guy and his ridiculously waxed moustache bend
stiffly at the waist to set a lighter to the twin tapered candles in the center of the table—as if they
need even more fancy lighting—and then he subtly gestures to someone off in the distance. The
chef, probably.

Dean tosses the man a strained smile and lets his attention fall back on his little brother across the
way. They should probably be talking or something if they don’t wanna draw suspicion, except
Dean can’t seem to think up a thing. At least Sam looks just as stilted and uncomfortable as he
does, but something about the rounded seams of his sweater makes him look soft, too—which
should probably be impossible, given the kid’s height and BMI, but that’s Sam for you. A whole
goddamn Easter basket full of contradictions. His brother shifts a little at the scrutiny, a hint of
white t-shirt peeking up past his collar and contrasting attractively against the base of his neck.
Sam’s always been so tan, even in the dead of winter, and the softly flickering candlelight just
brings out the golden warmth in his skin. Dean’s sure he looks like a ghost on his end. A
devastatingly handsome ghost, but still.

Thankfully, they’re saved from having to scrounge around for awkward conversation by the
arrival of their meals. Pristine, white plates heaped high with sausage jambalaya, chilled shrimp
and crab cakes, and what looks like crawfish étouffée ringing a perfect mound of red beans and
rice. It’s more than Sam could ever hope to eat in one sitting with his bird appetite, but Dean’s
definitely gonna try his best.

Huh, maybe Beau was telling the truth about the whole stomachache thing.

There are a few strings of limp vegetables lining the edges of his meal, some kind of rabbit food
that Dean can’t identify, and he reaches across to sweep his portion onto Sam’s side of the table
before it can taint any of the good stuff. His brother rolls his eyes at Dean’s arbitrary pickiness, but
wordlessly passes over his extra remoulade in return. Exchanging odds and ends in their
customary before dinner dance until they’re ready to eat, the same way they’ve done countless
times before.

And the simple familiarity of it disperses the apprehensive fog that had been suffocating them from
the moment they’d sat down.

“So,” Dean starts casually, deciding to hit an easy grounder to first while he piles as much
shellfish onto his fork as he can, “you find anything that…?” He trails off as he glances over at the
world’s stupidest moustache, realizing that it’s gonna be harder to do this with an audience than
he’d thought. He successfully fits all the food into his mouth and chews as he thinks. “You find
anything that explains the bugs?” Dean asks finally, careful and halting, trying to be as vague and
unsuspicious as possible.

“We, uh, have kind of a pest problem at home,” Sam lies to the waiter with an unconvincing
smile. “We’re looking for a good exterminator.” The man smiles wanly back in return, completely
uninterested. “But, no,” he directs surreptitiously back at Dean. “The problem isn’t that there
weren’t any—um, infestations—that fit that description. It’s that there were too many. No way to
narrow it down. Especially when that’s all we have to go on.”

Dean hums as he drenches a couple of crab cakes in his remoulade. At least now he knows why
Sam had been hunched over the computer the whole time he was in the bathroom. “Well, we
don’t have to know what type of ‘infestation’ it is to kill it.”

“Except, yeah, Dean,” Sam says, picking at some of his rice, “we kinda do.”

“I’m telling you, man. Nuclear option.” He jokingly pantomimes slicing his throat with a thumb.
“Works on almost everything.”

“With ‘almost’ being the key word there.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. Sam’s right. There’s really no excuse for not being thorough.
John would tan his hide if he did something stupid like going in half-cocked. Any hunter worth
his rock salt knows that’s the best way to get your guts strung up around your ears. Plus, he’d
never actually put his brother in that kind of reckless danger. It kinda goes against his number one
rule.

They make sporadic conversation through the rest of dinner, easy and enjoyable as they move
from the case to Brick Holmes’s passing statistics to old episodes of The Three Stooges. Dean’s
lips are tingling from the spice of his meal, Sam even laughs out loud once or twice, and by the
time they’re finished, they’ve put away most of the food on the table. And something inside of
Dean swells a little at the knowledge that his brother had actually eaten a sizeable portion of it
himself. Good. He’s gonna keep Sam’s lanky ass alive and healthy if it kills him.

Another wave of dudes in starched uniforms sweep in to take their empty plates and their main
waiter finally steps a little ways away so they can enjoy their after-dinner coffee in peace—chicory
again, but Dean’s flying too high to mind right now. He lets out a huge, contented sigh and kicks
out with his foot under the table, teasingly grazing Sam’s ankle as he scans over the dessert menu
offerings. “Oh thank Christ,” he lets out a second later.

“They have pie?” Sam asks dryly, but there’s amusement in his expression.

Dean tosses his brother a wink and a playful click of his tongue. “You know it.”

They have two kinds of pie actually. Apple and boysenberry, so he goes for the boysenberry. He’s
been off apple the last couple of weeks. Ever since Burkitsville. Which is a bummer because it’s
his usual go-to after pecan, but being offered up to a terrifying-ass scarecrow monster as part of a
ritualistic sacrifice will do that to you apparently. Eh, he’ll give himself one more week before he’s
over it.

The waiter briefly and discreetly brings him his order, nods at Sam’s politely dismissive wave, and
then steps back again to the far edge of the gazebo. Thank god. At least they’ll finally be able to
talk without constantly censoring themselves. Well—as long as they’re quiet, anyway.

Dean takes that first, perfect bite of pie, moans happily at the flavor of it, and then indicates their
painfully decorous waiter with a quirk of his head. “I guess dessert is when we’re supposed to get
all gushy,” he says sarcastically.

Sam’s response is a little restrained. “Well they did go through all the trouble of making
everything so romantic.”

There’s something off in his tone, reserved tension or guilt or something, and it makes Dean’s
shoulders itch. Probably about Jessica, if he had to guess. “Oh, c’mon,” he says, “don’t tell me
you’re actually getting suckered in by all this crap.”

His brother stares at him for a half second too long before flashing him a weak smile. “Yeah,
sorry. I guess you’re right.” Sam leans back in his seat with an oddly tinged sigh and fixes his
attentions on the night sky. “Can’t say it isn’t beautiful though,” he says, raising a hand to gesture
at the twinkling light of the fireflies. Dean takes way too long to drag his gaze away from his
brother’s candlelit face. Sam doesn’t seem to notice the awkward pause though, his head tilted
back as he watches the delicate bugs flit between the hanging tendrils of Spanish moss.
Completely oblivious to the way Dean’s eyes are locked onto the long stretch of his throat instead.
“Man, when’s the last time either of us were in Louisiana?”

“Few months,” he replies too quickly. It’s been eight, specifically, since he’s last seen his dad in
person—but who’s counting, right?

Sam flushes a little at the stark reminder of their separation and Dean silently regrets his automatic
response. He doesn’t want to have this fight. Hell, he’s been actively avoiding this particular fight
for what feels like forever. It doesn’t end anywhere good.

“Right, sorry,” Sam apologizes clumsily. “I didn’t think—” Dean just waves his hand in the
standard ‘don’t mention it’ signal, and Sam takes a minute to nervously pick at the cloth napkin
crumpled over his lap. “…You said New Orleans, right?” he asks. Dean sighs in frustration once
it becomes clear that his brother is refusing to let this go, but Sam ignores him, plowing right on
through. “What were you doing there?”

“Voodoo thing,” he says tensely. “I told you.”

“Yeah, but what—?”

“What do you think, Sam?” he bites out too sharply. “It was a hunt. Some people died, I showed
up, less people died.” Dean makes half an attempt to wrangle a muzzle around the growling jaws
of his temper, but it’s been building up for too long now. The resentment and the feelings of
abandonment never actually went away no matter how deep he shoved them down. They didn’t
even dull once Sam came back to him, always bubbling bitter and acidic in the base of his gut.
Low enough to ignore. Not low enough to forget. Dean slowly clenches his hands into tight fists
under the table and prepares himself for the heat of his brother’s anger. The aftermath of this blow-
out is gonna be just as much his fault as Sam’s, but he knows there’s nothing he can do to stop
himself now. “Y’know, I probably coulda used you,” he says, laying it out flat. Finally allowing
his hurt and jealousy to ache in the open air. “If you were there, we might’ve been able to save a
couple more. But I guess we’ll never know now, will we?”

Dark anger shutters down over his brother’s eyes, swift and absolute, just like he knew it would.
“I’m not going to apologize for going to school,” he warns lowly.

“Great,” Dean snits back. “No one’s asking you to.”

Sam immediately falls into his verbal sparring stance—head back and chin out, breathing in hard
through his nose as he sets his voice to that infuriating, high and mighty Stanford tone. Dean hates
it more than anything. “Then what are you trying to childishly push me into apologizing for?”

“I don’t know, Sam,” Dean hits right back, filling his own voice with an obnoxious parody of
cluelessness. “How about all the innocent people who’ve died while you were jerking off to the
books in the campus library?”

Sam twitches at the slight, nostrils flaring as he tries to remain calm. “This guilt trip isn’t about any
victims, Dean,” he spits. “You could at least have the balls to admit that much.”

Dean lets the flare of his own temper jerk him an inch closer over the table. “What’s it about then,
huh, Sammy? Why don’t you and your big, fancy, college-educated brain tell me and my idiot
GED what this is really about?”

They’re both spitting fire by now, but at least they have the sense of mind to be quiet about it. To
the waiter in the distance, it’ll just look like they’re having a hushed conversation. Passionate—
like he’d explained away to Abby on the very first day.

“It’s about me,” Sam says after a long, charged moment of silence.

“Wow,” Dean drawls facetiously. “Nice ego you’ve got there.”

Sam doesn’t budge from his argument, as petulant and sullen as he was at fourteen. “You know
that it is.”

“No, I really mean it. Wow. It’s great to know that the good ol’ college experience inflated your
giant head so much that you actually think this is about you,” he snarls, overly defensive. “Just
because you drank the Kool-Aid at a few pep rallies. Felt like cheering on the Stanford Vikings or
whatever the hell your mascot was.”

“Cardinal.”
God, it’s so like Sam to be pedantic. “Okay, fine,” Dean says indulgently. “So just because you
tossed on a few feathers—”

“The color.”

“What?”

“‘Cardinal’ as in the color,” Sam admits stiffly, clinging to the words like they’re being dragged
through his teeth. “Not the bird.”

Dean actually has to take a break from his rant for the stupidity of that to settle in. “Your school
mascot was the color red?” he asks incredulously. Sam doesn’t twitch a muscle in response, the
boiling rage keeping him motionless, but that’s blatant confirmation enough for Dean. “Wow, and
just when I thought higher education couldn’t get any lamer.”

And, apparently, that juvenile insult is what does it—the last metaphorical straw Sam’s inclined to
carry on his back before it breaks. “I don’t have to take this from you,” he snaps as he shoves out
of his seat with a soft ripping sound, his chair legs tearing through the grass beneath them.

But Dean violently snakes out a hand to latch onto his brother’s wrist before he can fully stand,
keeping him pinned in kind of a half-crouch over his chair. “Yes you fucking do, Sam,” he
enunciates stark and rigid under his breath. “We’re on a date, remember? A nice, romantic date
that isn’t gonna draw any attention or seem out of the ordinary in any way. So sit your ass back
down and think romantic thoughts and drink your goddamn coffee.”

Sam remains frozen for a moment, then does—stubbornly shaking off his hand and glowering at
him from under his bangs as he gradually sits back down, the candlelight glinting off his pinprick
pupils in the dark. “How’s your pie, honey?” he hisses like a viper.

“It’s good,” Dean flings right back. Tight and strained. Then he deliberately scoops up a forkful of
buttery crust and fruit and holds it out over the table. Just to be a dick in revenge. “You want a
bite?”

He gestures tauntingly with his fork, refusing to back down.

The waiter is watching.

His little brother has got murder in his eyes.

Sam pulls in a devastatingly calculated breath, his jaw tight and his lip raised in just enough of a
sneer that Dean can make out the even line of his bottom teeth. “Of course,” he says, low and
dangerous.

He carefully leans in over the table, glaring daggers at him the entire time. And Dean’s stomach
flips upside-down at the unflinching eye contact. Thick tension stuffing his throat as Sam closes
his soft pink lips around the fork in Dean’s fingers and then slowly pulls back again. Hint of a wet
tongue snaking out to lick the silver clean.

Dean can’t breathe suddenly. Because it was always a joke before. Every single time he’d said
something lewd or overly suggestive. And he always did, any chance he got. Nothing funnier in
the world than riling up an eighteen-year-old Sammy with an over-the-top pet name and an
intentionally placed hand on the small of his back. He’d stutter and blush and whine at him to
stop, but Dean would always do it again. Any time he could get away with it. The concept so
completely beyond the realm of possibility that it couldn’t be anything other than harmless—albeit
hilarious—teasing. But all of a sudden…that isn’t the case anymore.
He knows what Sam’s body feels like against his own. He knows what Sam’s tongue tastes like.
And even now, some insane, desperate part of Dean wants to fist a hand in his brother’s sweater,
wrench him across the table, and lick the tart berry filling from his mouth.

Dean jerks back under the ice-water realization, successfully horrified, and the fork drops from his
numb fingertips to clatter against his plate.

“Dean?” Sam asks curiously, kindly, their fight temporarily on hold now that he thinks something
is wrong.

But Dean can’t let this one ever escape. “I’m fine,” he says gruffly, blunt enough to kick Sam
right back into his pissy mood. It’s the Spanish Fly stuff. Obviously, that’s what it is. Has to be.
The gardens must not be ventilated enough to diffuse the effects, what with the thick copse of
trees keeping in all the humid air. Plus, he’s been breathing it in for almost a week now. Dean
needs to just calm the fuck down. None of this is on him.

“I’m taking a walk,” he informs his brother abruptly. Non-negotiable. Then he thinks twice
regarding their precarious situation, forcing himself to extend an insincere invitation purely for
appearance’s sake. “Care to join me, baby?”

Sam bristles, easily reading the non-offer for what it is. “No, thank you,” he says cold and formal.
“I think I’ll head back to the room.”

Dean nods his head, woodenly pushing up from his seat and allowing Mr. Belvedere to swoop in
and clear his plate as he stalks off further into the gardens, leaving Sam alone to sulk behind him.

He didn’t even get to finish his goddamn pie.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean winds his way deeper and deeper into the heart of the hotel grounds, hands shoved into the
pockets of his leather jacket against the chilly night air as he lets his heavy footsteps beat out the
rhythm of his pulsing anger. It’s dark along the path, the thick, green canopy over his head
shading all but the barest hint of moonlight from reaching the leaf litter, and Dean can scarcely see
two feet in front of him as he trudges out his residual angst. It feels appropriate though. He’d look
pretty stupid if he was tromping around out here in the middle of the day. God—he realizes with
an unflattering bent to his thoughts—just like that Josh douchebag Kat had been complaining
about. Dean mentally shudders away from the unpleasant comparison and tries to convince
himself this is different.

He’s just getting some air. He’s just trying to get some of the stimulant out of his lungs and
bloodstream. He’s just trying to protect his little brother before Dean loses his cool and strangles
the annoying fucker…or worse.

The worn, dirt path under his boots gradually trails away into nothing, but Dean keeps forging
ahead anyway, ducking and skirting around assorted varieties of low-hanging tree branches. His
dad would dose him with silver, iron, and holy water if he even caught an inkling of what’s been
going on with Dean the last few days. And he’d be right to. Hell, he’d probably tie him down and
force-feed him an entire dictionary’s worth of Latin to try and exorcise whatever demon’s clearly
got a hold on him.

Dean finally breaks the tree line, preoccupied by his own self-loathing, and comes chest to chest-
high wall with a thick line of solid, beige brick. It must mark off the edge of the grounds. Trying
to stop any morons from accidentally traipsing out to their doom in the bayou. He lets out a
conceding breath at finally having his passage blocked and tiredly steps up to rest his folded arms
over the low barrier. Dean must have blazed a trail toward the back end of the property, away
from the main road, because as far as the eye can see, there’s nothing but misty swampland
bleeding out into the night. The graveyard of at least eighteen people. If he hadn’t spent his entire
life up to his elbows in blood and death, it might actually even be a little spooky.

A low, spring breeze suddenly picks up, managing to sweep over him now that he’s away from
the protective thicket of trees, and reaches its invisible fingers out to barely ruffle the very ends of
his hair. Just where the product won’t hold sturdy enough. Dean’s moving before he means to, his
bracelet clacking against the rough stone as he adjusts positions to reach into his jacket. Mostly on
autopilot.

He’s got his phone out of his pocket, flipped open, and dialed before he’s even really fully aware
of what he’s doing. Then he places it up to his ear and silently pleads with anyone who’ll listen for
his call to be picked up. But the line just rings for an eternity, like he knew it would, before finally
kicking over to the voicemail. Dean waits patiently for the beep.

“Hey, Dad,” he starts off, unable to mask the emotion and relief in his voice at the almost-contact.
He needs this so much right now. “We’re still working this Missing Persons case in Crown Point
—Louisiana,” he adds quickly. Just in case John gets the message early enough to drive down and
meet them. “Sammy’s still, uh—we’re still not sure what this thing is yet, but we finally got a lead
today. There were flies in the hotel boiler room. Like Amityville-level flies,” he clarifies with a
breathy laugh, “not just crummy housekeeping. So, um, we’re looking into what sort of thing
might cause that. There’s nothing in your journal we could find, but—hell, you probably would
have an idea anyway, right, Dad? You’d probably just swoop in, get one look at the place, and
figure this whole thing out in like five seconds.” Dean swallows back a lump of hateful weakness
in his throat and centers himself back on the strength he knows will be second-nature one day. If
he just tries hard enough. “Don’t worry, sir,” he says firmly. “We’re gonna handle this. No one
else is gonna get hurt. I promise. I’ll talk to you soon, Dad. Bye.”

Dean stares at the open phone in his hand for a long time before snapping the thing shut and
slipping it back into the pockets of his coat. His dad’s coat. He lets out a long breath, turns up the
leather collar a little more sturdily against the breeze, and scrubs a hand over his eyes. Rough, until
he can’t tell the burning, prickling sensation from the pressure. Dean can’t—won’t ever—let Sam
see any of his failings, but he’s honestly floundering without John. Being truly, bleakly on his
own and in charge for the first time in his whole life. He keeps pretending he knows what to do,
what to say or think or track on a hunt, but he’s just blindly guessing. Taking a step out into thin
air and praying he doesn’t fall. Every single time. And it doesn’t help that Sam keeps staring down
at him with those searching, trusting eyes, expecting Dean to keep charting their course—even
when he makes a big, dramatic show of railing against it.

It’s just—it was so much easier when this was half John’s job too. And it still is, in a way. Dean
knows that, logically, even when he’s feeling hopeless and bitter like he is now. He knows their
dad is radio silent because he’s currently neck-deep in smoking out the thing that killed their mom.
The demon that killed their mom. He’s keeping them far out of harm’s way while he puts himself
into the line of fire because it’s the best way to protect them, but that still leaves Dean here. Point
man. Shouldering the burden by himself. Reaching out into the ether for just a hint of reassurance
and closing his grasping fingers around taunting, empty nothing.

He misses his dad with an embarrassing sense of helplessness. He misses him with a shakiness in
his voice that he sometimes can’t quite root out. He misses him with unsteady breathing and fake
bravado and over-defensive lashing out that pushes Sam’s buttons until he’s so furious that he
doesn’t want anything to do with him and stomps off back to their room while Dean is left out
here in the cold gardens. Alone.

…Dean’s no good at being alone.

But that’s where he finds himself now, hoist on his own goddamn petard thanks to the biggest
fight he and Sam have had since that argument over Dad on the way to Indiana. God, Sam was a
real asshole about that too. Making him be the one to drive away that time. Causing the whole
goddamn fight in the first place and then stubbornly standing his ground, making Dean be the one
to actually go. Meanest fucking thing he’s ever done.

Although, that was only the biggest fight they had since Sam had shot him in the freaking chest
with rock salt the day before that. And okay, yeah—granted, it wasn’t entirely his brother’s fault
given the psychotic ghost of a shrink who had tinkered with his brain, but Dean’s still counting it.

Christ. It’s like they can’t go two weeks without some kind of knock-down, drag-out.

And speak of the fucking devil. Dean hears the familiar shuffle of footsteps without even
bothering to turn around. Heavy enough for it to be a guy and well-placed enough that the guy
knows how to be silent.

“What are you doing here, Sam?” Dean asks flatly, keeping his eyes fixed on the scenery. He’d
ask how he found him out here in the middle of green nature, but they’ve always had kind of a
weirdo radar sense when it comes to each other. Dean doesn’t really question it anymore.

“I thought you were gonna come back to the room.” His brother steps up beside him, settling his
elbows down on the wall in an identical reflection of Dean’s position. “Y’know,” he says,
sheepish and stubborn, “eventually.”

Dean waits for another beat, but Sam stays silent. He’s making like he wants to apologize without
actually having to say the words. Well, too fucking bad. Dean isn’t gonna let him off the hook that
easy.

“Kinda eerie, huh?” Sam mentions, gesturing out to the bayou. “Knowing our guy is probably out
there somewhere.”

Or still lurking around the boiler room beneath his victims’ very feet. But Dean can’t help but
smile a little at the echo of his own initial thoughts.

He isn’t gonna say it, Dean can tell. Which is fine, really. Their argument isn’t over, but they can
just put it behind them and pretend it never happened until the next time it gets brought up and
they end up going for each other’s throats again. It’s what they do. It’s practically the Winchester
way. All their hurt, all their anger just gets bottled up and ignored and shoved away, but it never
actually gets fixed.

Ah, well—he thinks, nudging playfully at his brother’s arm until Sam lets out an almost-
indiscernible sigh of relief. They did learn from the best, after all.
 Friday

Dean steps off the elevator, alone, thanks to Sam wanting to head downstairs a little early—but
he’s got his hands casually in his pockets and is whistling the baseline to ‘Fortunate Son’ as he
practically springs across the lobby. He can’t help his good mood. They’re almost home-free here.
One more night of stupid sappy bullshit, and then they can focus all their attention on this Donald
guy. Follow him back to where he lives, carefully stake him out for a couple nights, and pounce
once they catch even the slightest proof of carnage. And they won’t have to worry about any
relationship crap along the way. No, sir. It’ll just be him and Sammy. Back to normal. Working a
case like usual with no confusing, awkward feelings to deal with.

That is, if he can manage to shove them all back in their boxes again now that they’ve tasted
daylight.

He shakes the ominous thought out of his head and rounds the corner to the front desk—the
interior lights spreading a warm, bronze glow to counteract the early evening gloom outside—and
then stops short as he almost runs right over Josh, red-faced and sweaty and looking like he’s
about to have a damn aneurism with the way he’s berating poor Abby behind the desk.

“I paid an assload of money to be here,” he hisses condescendingly, rapping his knuckles hard
against the wood for emphasis. “The least you could do is make sure the fucking water works in
this place!”

Abby takes a deep breath and then plasters a cordial smile on her face as she handles the situation.
“I can assure you, sir,” she says calmly, “our entire staff is aware of the problem and we have a
secondary repairman on his way as we speak.”

Josh lets out a dismissive scoff. “The staff being aware doesn’t help me any. When the hell is the
water gonna be fixed?”

“I can have my manager make a call to your room the minute we get an estimate,” she says.
“Would that be helpful, sir?”

“Yes, that would be helpful,” he says condescendingly. “Obviously.” He waits for another beat,
maybe just to see if her professional veneer will falter, then pushes away from the desk when it
doesn’t. “Jesus-fucking-Christ,” Josh mutters under his breath, shoving past Dean toward the far
hallway, “the service here.”

Dean doesn’t even grant the douche a second glance. “Hey,” he says to Abby once they’re alone,
“you okay there?”

“Of course, Mr. Waters. And if this is about the hot water,” she adds, quick and preemptive, “I
can assure you that a replacement technician will be arriving within the hour.”

“Whoa, c’mon,” Dean says, throwing his hands up between them, palms out in his own defense.
“Gimme a little credit, here. No matter what that dickbag was saying to you, I’m not gonna come
down and yell at you for something that ain’t your fault.”

Abby lets out a relieved sigh, immediately relaxing at the reprieve, and it’s almost funny how fast
the fakey smile slips from her face. “All part of working in the service industry,” she says
sarcastically—and much more naturally. Though there’s a bit of self-deprecating humor in it too.

Dean slinks in a little closer to rest an elbow on the desk, surprisingly charmed. “I wouldn’t trade
you,” he says honestly, and they both chuckle a little at Josh’s expense. Although Dean stretches
back to check that the hallway is clear first. The asshole may deserve it, but he’s not interested in
courting a fistfight when he’s this close to freedom. “So,” he says, turning his attention back to
more attractive things, “what’s going on? Something about the water?”

“Our boiler repairman left,” Abby vents, the genuine frustration behind the pleasant hostess façade
coming out now that she’s been given some leeway. “He comes in like once every two weeks to
do basic maintenance and repairs and stuff,” she explains, and Dean does a bang-up job of
pretending that he’s hearing the information for the first time. “So he turns off all the hot water,
like he’s supposed to before any work, but then he just disappears without turning it back on.”
She raises her eyebrows, waiting for him to react. Like this is the part where he’s supposed to gasp
or something. “No notice. No replacement set up in his absence.”

Dean’s lips do go tight for a second as he holds back a groan. Motherfucking Donald. Of course
he left. Shit. They should have expected this, kept a closer eye on the guy. “Any idea where he
went?” he asks, trying to sound just invested enough that she’ll take it for idle curiosity.

Abby hesitates for a moment, probably afraid of breaching protocol or something, but Dean gives
her a slow, enticing grin and she buckles, drawn in by the gossip, despite herself. “My boss called
his house this morning,” she says under her breath, leaning in clandestinely. “Apparently his
roommate said that he told him he was going to visit his sister in Shreveport for the weekend, but
he packed up all his things. Totally cleaned the place out.”

“Sure as hell sounds like he’s running from something,” Dean comments, mostly to himself.

But his tone must have been a little too intense because Abby gives him a weird look. “I guess?”
she says, more of a question than a statement. Then she leans back a little, recreating the
appropriately professional amount of space between them. “Huh, I figured he was just being
flakey.”

Dean clears his throat and makes to cover his tracks. “Well, yeah,” he backpedals. “It’s probably
that.”

Abby gives him another brief look, more amused this time, and Dean decides to just let her believe
he’s an idiot. It’s less suspicious that way. “Well, I guess I better be going,” he says, tapping his
fingernails against the desk. Though his awkwardness is only half intentional. “They’re probably
all waiting for me.”

Abby’s expression of amusement doesn’t waver. “Have fun, Mr. Waters,” she says pleasantly,
and he slips away before he can actually do any permanent harm to his reputation.

Dean finally slinks into the hotel's lounge, nursing his bruised pride practically the whole way, and
then skims his gaze over whoever he can make out through the low lighting. Mood lighting, most
likely. More romance crap that he won’t have to deal with past tonight. He sees Estelle and Simon
first, heads together as they whisper contentedly, then Kat—unfortunately, with Josh glued to her
side like a overbearing tumor—which really cuts down on any opportunity for flirting Dean could
have squeezed in last minute. He must have gotten over yelling at Abby quick enough to be in a
better mood now. Good—Dean thinks acerbically. He wouldn’t want something like that to linger
on the poor guy’s conscience.

He keeps on scanning the room until he spots Sam, almost an unconscious action with how
automatic the itch is, and finds him at one of the tables near the front, chatting animatedly with
Vivian and Beau. Of course he is. Leave it to Sam to make buddies with their potential civilian
victims. If it wasn’t so goddamn annoying he might even appreciate the predictability of it.
Dean heads over to them as he grumbles indistinctively under his breath, intent on resituating his
brother somewhere a little less in the midst of things. By force if need be.

The lounge itself is excessively large considering that these music nights are probably the only
thing it’s used for. Broad sweeps of dark red adorn the walls, attempting to make the place seem a
little more cozy than it is, and a few, assorted four-tops are clustered around the base of the stage,
taking up most of the space and providing a textured counterpoint to the worn maroon leather
lining the booths against the back wall. Those seats are farther from the action, but they’re more
private—and they provide a better viewpoint of the room at large. Plus, it won’t leave their
exposed backs to the entryway.

A place this big could probably seat fifty or so if most of the chairs weren’t empty. He wonders if
the pie-in-the-sky builders of this hotel had idealistically planned for a lot more clientele than the
smattering of guests they have now. Or if maybe it’s just the off season. Or if maybe it’s the
horrible rumors about how many people have died here.

Dean finally makes it to the base of the empty stage and takes in the way the dark wood is all lit
up in cool blues and greens, the almost alien colors casting odd shadows across the
unaccompanied instrument cases. It’s kinda creepy, actually. So he’s never really gotten the appeal
of jazz. Sue him.

Beau spots him first—of course he does with the way Sam and Vivian are busy chattering away
like the bestest of friends.

“Hey there, Dean,” he says all friendly and harmless. “You joining us?”

Sam finally comes up for air at the mention of his name, but he must take Dean’s generic distaste
in his choice of companionship as something more serious because his eyebrows draw down to a
concerned point. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, weighing if it’s worth it to fake more worry over the hunt just to get them out
of there. He decides against it, for now. He can always pull the ace from his sleeve if he needs to.
“I just thought maybe we’d sit a ways away,” he says, elongating his vowels a little and tilting his
head toward the back of the room.

Sam blinks, then sets his jaw tight and stares him down. “Why?” he asks simply. And Sam’s not
an idiot. He knows Dean’s gotta want to talk to him, but given the glint in his eye, he’s probably
drawing one of his stupid lines in the sand. Something about Dean needing to be less anti-social, if
he had to guess. Or maybe it’s just because their argument last night never really scabbed over.

Thankfully Vivian makes his case for him. “Sam,” she says pointedly, nudging at his arm with a
breathy chuckle. “I think maybe Dean wants to sit somewhere a little more private.”

And okay, Jesus, Dean wouldn’t have used that ‘Romance Book Club for Lonely Forty-
Somethings’ tone of voice. But he has to admit it gets him his results.

Sam gets up to his feet like someone’s shoved a cattle prod up his ass, the colored lighting making
the purple monstrosity of a shirt he’s wearing look even more ridiculous against the blush
suddenly burning across his face. His circulation is impressive, really. Especially considering the
continuous work-out it's been given this past week. “Alright, c’mon,” Sam says under his breath,
tugging at Dean’s sleeve as he directs him back toward the booths. “Is there something wrong
with the case?” he asks once they’re out of earshot.

“I dunno, sorta,” Dean answers honestly. He scratches a fingernail under his eye and sniffs
casually. “Donny skipped town.”
“Shit,” Sam says, actually coming to a stop for half a beat. “We shoulda seen that coming.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

They get to the back of the room and slide into one of the empty booths just as the band starts to
trickle onto the stage. There’s a faint chorus of clapping from the meager audience and then the
musicians take a moment to warm up their instruments. The piano man plays a little run on the
keys, to the annoying delight of the rest of the room, and it’s…fine or whatever. Not that Dean has
any dog in the fight when it comes to mellow jazz.

“Think they’ll toss me out if I request ‘Freebird’?” he asks on a sarcastic breath.

Sam lets out a snort and bumps against his shoulder. Half in amusement and half in affected
scolding, just because he probably feels like he should. It’s kinda their shtick.

The band finally digs into a song for real and Dean watches all the rest of the couples start to get
cozy as they settle in to listen. To a one. He chews at the inside of his cheek and risks a glance
back at the open entryway. No one’s behind them, but if any of the people up front turn around
for whatever reason they’ll get a solid eyeful of him and Sam leaving a pretty healthy amount of
room for Jesus between them. Better to be safe than sorry. Especially this late in the game.
Especially given what Vivian had inferred regarding their seating choice.

Dean grabs at his brother’s legs before he can change his mind, bodily yanking him across the
booth until he’s sprawled over his lap. There—that’s better.

“Dude, what the hell?” Sam whisper-hisses, awkwardly squirming as he tries to free himself, but
Dean ain’t letting go. Sam can just have his little virgin freak-out after they’re out of here and
away from any suspicious eyes. Luckily, his brother seems to get with the program pretty damn
quick, though he shivers a little at the way they’re pressed together, probably shocked by how
weird this is. “You could have just asked,” he says, hushed and stubborn. “Like a human being.”

He shrugs his shoulders, exaggerating his movements a little so Sam can see him in the dim light.
“This was quicker.”

“Asshole,” Sam mutters just loud enough to be heard over the music, but it’s affectionate.

Dean’s lips twitch up a little at the non-insult, but he’s mostly focused on casting a careful eye
over the rest of the room, picking out what mannerisms he needs to mimic to fit in. Nothing too
dramatic, thankfully, so he just slips a casual arm around Sam’s lower back and pulls him in close.

Sam still goes stiff as a mannequin. “Dean, what are you doing?” his brother asks on a nervous
whisper. Like the loose one-armed hug is what’s making this indecent.

“Staying in character,” Dean whispers back. And it’s the right answer, the one he’s been aiming
for this entire time, but for some reason it also feels like a lie. “It’s gonna look really freaking
weird if you’re halfway on top of me and we’re not touching at all,” he justifies further. And there,
that sounds believable enough. He subtly angles his head at the rest of the room, and then does it
again a little less subtle, until Sam follows his eye line to take in the other couples. Estelle’s got
her hands in places no one in polite company should have to see, Beau’s wrapped around Vivian
from behind, crowding his wife in a relaxed embrace as she leans against his chest, and even Josh
keeps making crude advances up Kat’s shirt that she repeatedly has to slap away. “C’mon, man,”
Dean says persuasively, “it looks like the orgy scene from the second Matrix in here. Only with a
way lamer soundtrack.” And he’s only partially joking. On both counts.

“No, it does not,” Sam argues, but he’s laughing quietly even as he says it. He gives in almost
instantly, hesitantly slipping his left arm up around the back of Dean’s shoulders and bracing his
forearm against the booth so they can tip their heads together without anyone eavesdropping.
Bringing them close enough that Dean can feel Sam’s chest press against his own with every
shaky inhale.

“That’s a little better, lover,” he chuckles under his breath, “but you still look like you’re about to
bolt.”

Sam ducks his head in concession, a self-conscious smile twitching at the edges of his mouth.
“Sorry,” he says, then shifts his hips until he’s turned solidly in toward him instead of the band.
Leaving the soft tinkling of piano keys and the intricate rhythm of the upright bass to continue
unobserved behind him. His right hand flounders for a moment, like he’s unsure where he can put
it without overstepping his bounds, and he ends up with his palm spread broad and warm over the
center of Dean’s chest. He adjusts the placement slightly, his fingers crawling up a little higher so
they aren’t pressing the charm of Dean’s amulet into his skin, and he can feel all his blood rush up
to meet Sam’s hand. His touch leaving a tingling trail behind it. But then, Dean’s always been a
little sensitive.

He wills his heartbeat to slow down. It’s picking up, thudding and nervous for some reason, and
he doesn’t want to worry his brother. It’s his job to keep Sam feeling safe. If he gets too jittery,
Sam might think they’re in more danger than they are, and then they’ll have to leave and go deal
with that and Dean doesn’t want to. Not yet. He wants to…sit right here just like this and talk
about the case. Because—because they’re in a good strategic position right now. They can bat
around theories without anyone being the wiser while still keeping an eye on the guests.

Except they aren’t exactly talking about the case.

Dean shoves the niggling awareness down deep and does his best to get comfy with half of his
enormous little brother splayed across his lap, intentionally relaxing the rest of his body as he
adjusts his position in return. Sam sucks in the smallest little breath as his hands start to wander,
still jumpy thanks to all his ridiculous modesty, and his ribs hitch just slightly as Dean passes his
fingertips over his sides. Then further, over whatever lean muscle and firm skin he can make out
past the slight barrier of soft fabric. Dean swallows past his sudden dry mouth and keeps going,
one hand finding purchase on Sam’s thigh while the other continues to stroke and press like he’s
helpless to stop. He should probably pick a relatively harmless spot and stick with it, some place
just couple-y enough for them to fit in with the horny crowd, but there’s something intoxicating
about touching his brother like this, now that he’s been given the flimsy excuse. Addictive, even.
Because he may be generally aware that Sam’s as big as a plow horse—hell, anyone with eyes
could see that—but it makes him damn proud to feel the literal proof of it. He did that. He kept
Sam fed, kept him alive, no matter how many peanut butter and banana sandwiches he’d had to
suffer through or creative ways to spice up mac and cheese he’d had to invent. Dean built this
body up from its scrawny bones almost as much as Sam did himself. It’s only fair he should be
allowed to enjoy it.

He pushes his luck a little further, but Sam seems to have calmed down enough by now to settle
under his roving touch, even leaning into it a little. Like maybe it feels good. Probably just the
basic, fundamental necessity of human contact. Because Dean damn well knows no one else has
been touching his brother lately. It’s unnatural, the way Sam lives. Holing himself up like a
friggin’ monk. A few more months of the same and Sam would probably be happy with Ric Flair
groping at him. Comparatively, this relaxed acceptance is understandable given how closed-off
Sam usually is. He trusts Dean. That’s all it is.

So Dean allows it when his fingers start to grow a little bolder in their exploration, slipping under
the back of Sam’s shirts underscored by a particularly upbeat shimmer of the hi-hat to press gently
against warm skin. Though he makes sure to avoid anywhere…sensitive. Of course he does. This
is innocent after all. Sam’s breath jumps again as he skims over the base of his spine, but Dean
pretends it’s just due to the uneven beat of the music. Sam would stop him if he wanted to. He
really goes out on a wire, waiting for the disgusted recoil or bitchy admonishment that never
comes, and brings his arm around to trace up his brother’s front, more silk-smooth skin stretching
for miles until he gets to the bare scattering of tiny ingrown bumps where Sam’s taken a razor to
his chest hair. It’s unexpected, and he can’t help but huff out an affectionate laugh at the feeling,
hoping that his brother can’t hear it over the low whine of the saxophone. It’s kind of cute, really.
The fact that he cares enough about something that meaningless to deal with the regular upkeep.

Maybe Jessica had preferred him that way—the unwelcome thought intrudes. Blunt. Unwanted.
Dean swallows back a hint of acid and wonders why he’s the only one who seems to appreciate
Sam as he is. Who doesn’t need (or want) him to change his hands or his past or his body to be
good enough. Sure, the kid drives him nuts most of the time with the whining and the holier-than-
thou attitude and the spontaneous outbursts of anger, but Dean doesn’t actually want any of that
stuff to change. He wouldn’t have his little brother any other way. Warts and all.

His hand finally comes to rest along the edge of where Sam’s ribs meet his chest, the web of his
palm barely missing the edge of a tight nipple as his thumb curves around the underside of his pec.
Just connected enough that he can feel him breathe. He isn’t actually touching anything improper.
It’s still safe, the way he’s doing it. It’s…okay for brothers to touch like this. He’s carried Sam all
his life. It’s no different now.

Sam doesn’t say a word in complaint. Dean’s sure he’s gonna ask him what he thinks he’s doing,
why he’s got a hand up his shirt stealing second when no one else is paying attention to them
enough to even be fooled, but he doesn’t.

“So…you said our guy is in the wind?” he asks instead, though a little haltingly. Like this is any
other conversation. Like Dean doesn’t have a handful of his little brother’s chest against his palm.
Like Sam doesn’t have his own long fingers splayed out across Dean’s beating heart in return.
Like Sam isn’t half straddling his goddamn thighs.

Dean swallows hard and decides to follow his brother’s lead. It’s impressively professional.
“Yeah,” he says, a bit uneven. “That chick from the front desk told me he cleaned his apartment
out and left his roommate in the lurch.”

“You think she’s telling the truth?”

It’s a smart question, but Sam’s low-level paranoia has steered them wrong more than once.
“Yeah, I do,” he says. “But we can check with a couple of the other concierges just to make sure.
See if their stories line up.”

Sam nods thoughtfully, the slight bounce of his head bringing him close enough that Dean can
smell the lingering scent of his shampoo. He wants to bury his face in it. But instead, he just twists
his neck around until he can make out the look of consternation on his brother’s face. Sam’s brain
busy chugging away at worst-case scenarios like it always is.

“Hey, c’mon,” Dean scolds lightheartedly. “Smile, Sam. We’ve fingered the culprit and nobody
even died. All we gotta do now is chase him down. It’s as cut and dry as I’ve ever seen it.” He
jostles him a bit for good measure, not letting up until he breaks into a weak smile.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Sam says eventually, letting his tension seep away on a sigh as he
relaxes further into his hold. Or maybe he’s just finally getting into the music. This kind of thing
does seem boring and generic enough for his brother to enjoy.
“’Course I’m right,” Dean can’t help but add, scooting a little closer in turn. “I’m the oldest.”

Sam lets out a derisive laugh at the words, but he doesn’t call him on it. He just shifts around a
little bit, bending himself near in half so that he can rest his head in the curve of Dean’s neck. Like
he belongs there. Just like he keeps doing at night.

“You, um,” Dean’s mouth suddenly feels like it’s full of sawdust, “you okay?”

“My back’s acting up a bit,” Sam explains.

“Oh,” Dean says understandingly. “Sure.” It must be from the awkward position he’d yanked
Sam into. That makes…it makes perfect sense. So he brings his shoulders down from around his
ears and leaves it be. Letting the relaxed melody flow over them both as he wraps his arms loosely
around his brother’s waist and rests his chin against his hair. Maybe this jazz stuff isn’t so bad after
all. And Dean closes his eyes for a second, just a second, and pulls in a lungful of this moment.

They stay there, just like that, until the music gradually comes to a reluctant end with a tinkling
cascade of piano keys, pauses for a smattering of polite applause from the rest of the guests, and
then picks up again with a new song that sounds exactly the goddamn same as the other five
they’ve already played.

Dean lets out a breathy little laugh at the mental criticism and Sam pulls his head back to see
what’s got him so amused. It’s nothing. It’s just a little blip of frivolous nothing, but Dean glances
over to catch his brother’s gaze and ends up fixed on the jagged flare of his eyelashes, cast soft
and low and almost shy over slanted eyes, a star burst prism of amber bleeding into green bleeding
into blue if they were out in the sunlight, and Dean finds himself unexpectedly struck—really,
honestly struck—by how beautiful his little brother is.

Fuck, it’s not like it’s news or anything. They share most of their genes and Dean’s practically
god’s gift to the fairer sex, so of course Sam would catch a little residual handsome DNA. It’s
just…Dean doesn’t usually look. Or let himself look. Or let himself realize he’s looking.

But Sam seems just as frozen as he is, caught in the shared connection and the hypnotizing
melody and the moment, his lips hovering just one stupid decision away from Dean’s own. Like
they’re about to kiss. Which should be a ludicrous idea. Unthinkable. Except Dean knows exactly
what that would feel like now. They’ve done it before. They—they kissed. Him and Sam. His
little brother. And it’s something that no amount of booze or willful repression can ever take back
and Dean thinks he should probably feel different about it than he does. He’s not even sure how
he feels about it, actually, but he’s still positive that whatever he does feel about it, he should feel
different.

Maybe the Spanish fly in here is working overtime because Dean’s starting to feel that warm, low-
level buzz he always gets in his groin when he’s got a beautiful woman hanging on his every
word. Only, he’s barely said a thing all night.

Sam tilts forward, just the slightest bit, then pauses, his eyes glinting solemn and terrified under the
low light. Like he’s never been more serious in his life. “Dean, I—” he starts, hesitant and
whisper-quiet, and then the rest of the relevant words seem to get lodged in his throat.

Dean slowly leans in himself, close enough that he can feel his brother’s warm exhales on his own
skin. “What, Sammy?”

And just for a second, just for one, single, solitary second, Dean thinks Sam is going to tell him—
but it only takes a moment more for cold, bleak determination to come crashing down over his
expression. “Nothing,” he breathes. Then he slips off Dean entirely, yanking hard wherever he
won’t let up. Until he’s free. “I have to go,” he says stiffly.

“What?” Dean scoffs, blindsided by the sharp U-turn. “Wait—Sam, whaddya mean go?”

His brother flinches back at the desperation in his question. “Jesus, Dean. I’m not leaving
permanently. I just have to go, okay? Back to the room or something.”

Dean scrunches his forehead up in confusion, trying to understand what just happened. How he
messed up everything so fast it’s practically a new record. “You got another migraine?” he asks.
It’s the only thing he can think of that doesn’t put him in the hot seat.

“Yeah,” Sam says charitably, but he’s lying. And he’s not even lying well. “I’ll see you later,
alright? Finish out the concert.” And before Dean can even string together a bewildered protest,
he’s gone. The broad flip of that stupid purple shirt the last thing Dean sees as his brother clears
the arched entryway. Because he wants to be alone. Because he wants to be anyplace Dean isn’t.

What the fuck did he do?

Dean sits there for an indistinguishable stretch of time, listening to the repetitive songs blend into
themselves as he runs over every possible mistake he could have made in his head. Stewing in
guilt and confusion as he does his best to let his brother have his space like it isn’t eating away at
him from the inside-out. He sits there long enough for Simon to start letting out soft snores from a
few rows in front of him, one arm still limply around his wife as Estelle continues to enjoy the
concert. He sits there long enough for Josh and Kat to start snipping at each other under their
breath, getting progressively louder and louder until Josh pushes out of his chair and storms off in
a pissy huff. Maybe he’s gonna go yell at the staff some more.

Dean sits there, automatically registering everything that happens in his sightline and retaining
none of it at all, until he finally notices the blurry edges of another body slowly approaching him.

“You guys have a fight too?” Kat asks softly. She slips into the booth beside him when Dean
doesn’t respond right away, seemingly content to sit there in silence until he feels like talking.

Dean stares out at the stage without really seeing it for another minute or two, but Kat sits there
patiently. “Uh, no,” he says eventually, clearing his throat when his voice comes out too rough. “I
don’t think so.” Although who could tell for sure with the way Sam runs hot and cold on the flip
of a dime. He glances over at his new seatmate, does his best to drum up a believable smile, and
for not even close to the first time in his life, Dean has to grudgingly admit, he would rather be
with his little brother than a stunningly attractive woman. He rubs a few fingers over his eyes and
resigns himself to this conversation. To this companion for the evening. Even if it isn’t who he
wants right now. “So you and Josh had another fight, huh?” he asks half-heartedly, just to make
small talk. “Everything okay?”

Kat smiles like she appreciates the gesture, but it’s pained. “No,” she says quietly. And it sounds
final. Like an ending. “I really don’t think so.”

“Hey,” he says, trying to be supportive. “Hey, c’mon. I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

Kat lets out a dark sort of sound, like she’s tired of pretending. “You’re into guys. Do you even
like him, Dean?”

And Dean has learned from his many years of experience with women that that’s the kind of
question they don’t actually want an honest answer to. “Well, I figure maybe he’s more of an
acquired taste,” he hedges, “like sea urchin or something.”

“Sea urchin,” she scoffs with bitter-tinged amusement. “Yeah, that sounds about right.” Kat runs a
hand over her eyes, in exhaustion, or maybe she’s just wiping away the faint traces of tears before
they can actually spill. “Do you ever think your life is going one way,” she asks wetly, “and
everything is set in stone?” No. Dean doesn’t let himself think that way. Not anymore. Sam had
done a bang-up job of shattering his foundation once already and he’s not sure he could survive it
again. But Kat continues on like the question was rhetorical. “And you accept it because it all
came out of the choices you made. So you go along with it and do your best to muddle through,
but somewhere along the way you just realize…” She lets out a miserable sigh, gazing off in the
direction of the band for a long, long while before finally speaking up again. “What do you do
when you realize you’re not happy anymore?”

Dean had driven all the way to California and ripped his brother out of the arms of his almost-
fiancée.

“You do whatever you can to get back to where you wanna be,” he says, as grim as death. And
just as certain. It’s the one lesson he’s learned in life that didn’t come from his dad. No, Dean
stumbled across that bitter chestnut all on his own. “And maybe it’s selfish—hell, it is selfish,” he
clarifies on second thought, “but it’s better than sitting around wallowing in your bullshit
problems. Drinking to get sadder, because it feels righteous and painful and maybe almost kinda
like revenge.” Dean turns his heated gaze out onto the stage too, not meeting Kat’s eyes as he
pulls himself back from the too-personal, too-recent memories. “Someone’s always gonna get hurt
along the way,” he says bleakly. “That’s just life. Better that it’s not you.”

Kat pauses for a moment, really, thoroughly takes his words in, and then lets them out again on a
slow breath. “Yeah,” she says in somber, muted agreement. “I guess that makes sense.”

And Dean can only force himself to sit there for a moment more before he has to take his own
advice to heart. Before he has to go after his brother. Again. Always. “Look, sweetheart,” he says,
“I’m sorry but—”

Kat doesn’t even need him to finish his excuse. “No, it’s okay, you should go,” she urges him on
halfheartedly. “Go try and fix it.” She’s smiling at him, but there’s a helpless kind of look in her
eye that tells him she’s been in his exact place more than once. And maybe a little bit of pity too,
now that she’s decided to be free of it.

Dean thinks maybe he pities her a little bit, given her taste in men.

But he accepts the courteous dismissal all the same.

No one bothers him as he makes his way back up to the room, everyone’s too busy with the
music, and the hotel almost feels like it’s been abandoned as Dean roams the hallways. But it’s
good. He wants some quiet. Some privacy. Some small moment where he’s not the mincing, gay
bug under the microscope. Where he can be himself. Where he and Sam can be them.

He gets to Number 4 and unlocks their door without knocking, but Sam’s had enough alone time
by now. He can just suck it up and talk to Dean whether he wants to or not. The lights aren’t on
when he steps inside, which means Sam is wallowing. But still, Dean closes the door behind him
and lets out a relieved sigh at the shadowy, human-shaped lump on the giant pink bed. He always
feels more whole once his brother is in sight again, despite how little he likes to dwell on that
thought. It’s a bit pathetic. Although, not quite as pathetic as Sam’s current bedmates, now that
Dean can make out the picture a little more clearly.

His brother rolls over at the sound of the lock engaging and a litany of tiny, little plastic bottles
click and crunch and settle underneath his weight. Because Sammy has apparently decided to get
drunk off an assortment of liquors from the minibar. Like a high school sophomore on her first trip
away from home. Actually—exactly like a high school sophomore, as it looks like his makeshift
nest mostly consists of tequila. Which isn’t great.

Sam only drinks tequila when some sort of guilt’s been eating at him. When he’s done something
that makes him think he deserves it. The ritual an odd, and familiar, penance—something to do
with the fact that the liquor burns just as much going down as it does coming back up, Dean
thinks. Though he doesn’t have a clue what his brother is feeling guilty about now. Unless it’s just
more residual Jessica stuff. It does seem to come in inconvenient waves. He lets out a short sigh
and heads over to tend to his soused brother. Whatever the case may be, one thing’s for certain.
Sam’s gonna be puking fire come tomorrow morning.

“So this was your pressing matter that needed attending to, huh?” Dean asks sardonically as he
stalks across the room.

Sam lets out a smothered laugh into the bedspread. “You’re a pressing matter,” he mumbles
drunkenly, then laughs again. Clearly he’s far gone enough to have completely lost any grasp on
humor, but at least he’s not slurring his words yet.

“You okay there, little brother?” Dean asks, and it’s just as much out of self-preservation as it is
out of a concern for Sam’s wellbeing. If he’s gonna blow chunks, Dean wants to know early
enough to get out of the line of fire. He’d learned that the hard way once when Sam was fifteen.

But, apparently, his concerns are unwarranted as Sam just blinks up at him through a beatific
smile. “Hey, Dean,” he says warmly.

“Hey, yourself,” he says back. He crouches down by the head of the bed and runs a hand over his
brother’s head, petting through his hair a couple times, and Sam tilts into the attention like a cat.
Like he’d done in that boiler room. Like he’d done splayed across his lap down in the lounge.
Like he’s been doing the last couple nights, curled up contentedly around Dean in their shared
bed. Dean swallows back an acidic bit of guilt and immediately stills his fingers. Sammy’s always
been a happy drunk—and an affectionate one. It shouldn’t be any different now than it’s been the
other dozen times. It shouldn’t make Dean’s stomach swoop in an unnervingly familiar way. Like
in the dreams.

He pulls his hand away from Sam anyway.

“So what exactly brought this on?” Dean asks as he sits back on the floor, keeping one eye on
Sam while he unlaces his boots.

Sam just turns his face into the comforter and mumbles out something unintelligible. Though it
sounds vaguely apologetic.

“Is that an ‘I’m sorry, Dean, for leaving you all on your own at the stupid concert’?”

Sam mumbles some gibberish into the comforter again. This one sounds derogatory.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grumbles sarcastically. “Joke’s on me for expecting you to be the bigger man
here.” The thought strikes him funny, and he’d make a comment along those lines, but Sam’s
probably too plastered right now to even catch the humor. Oh, well. Dean can keep it in his back
pocket for another time.

“Alright, Bukowski,” Dean groans gently, getting up to his knees so that he can collect up the
empty bottles. “Save some for the rest of us.” His flippant statement becomes surprisingly literal
though, when one of the little bottles he’s removing turns out to still be a quarter full. Dean tips the
thing back before he can think twice. It’s barely a sip, but he’ll take anything he can get given his
miserably sober evening thus far.
When he glances back at his brother, Sam is watching him through half-lidded eyes. Not moving a
muscle to help, mind you, but watching all the same.

“Can I get you anything else, Your Highness?” Dean asks gruffly, but there’s a fair bit of
amusement in it. There’s something endearing in how much of an expectant little shit Sam can be
sometimes. When all of his pretension and maturity and self-righteousness falls away. When he’s
just Dean’s bratty kid brother again. It’s a reminder that tigers can’t ever change their stripes
completely, no matter how much fancy Stanford schooling they get, and it’s remarkably
comforting.

His brother finally lifts his head high enough that he can speak clearly, though the angle of his
neck looks kinda painful. And once he opens his mouth, Dean almost wishes he hadn’t spoken at
all. “I’m sorry,” Sam says, miserable and guilty, then he twists his head back into the bed so that
Dean can’t make out his eyes past the mess of his bangs.

“For what?”

But Sam just silently shakes his head. Inscrutable as ever.

“For what, Sammy?” he asks one more time, getting down on his haunches so that they’re even.

Sam lets out a plaintive sound into the blankets, then catches his gaze again. “I don’t wanna leave
when I leave, Dean,” he says, confusing and contradictory as a fucking riddle. “I mean, I do. But I
also don’t.”

And Dean doesn’t even know why he’d bothered trying with Sam skunked like this. “Yeah,” he
says flatly. “Thanks, Yoda. That makes sense.”

“When I left for school,” Sam reminds him, completely unnecessarily.

“Yeah, duh, Sam,” Dean tosses back sharply, unable to curb the painful reminder those words
bring up. Even now, after all this time. Then he lets out a remorseful breath at the big, pitiful
huddle Sam’s making over the blankets. “Look, it doesn’t matter now, Sammy,” he says, softer as
he goes about carefully stripping his brother out of his overshirt. It’s the least he can do
considering what his head is gonna feel like in the morning. “Water under the bridge. And the
river’s miles behind us.” Dean pulls the tangled purple fabric free of his wrists and tosses it blindly
behind him. “You’re back with me now, and we’re gonna find Dad, and you can just…forget
about Stanford, okay?” he says reassuringly, bringing a hand down to rest on the curve of Sam’s
waist. “It’s not like you’re ever going back.”

“I am, Dean,” Sam insists stubbornly. “I have to.”

“No you don’t.” Dean sighs, mostly ignoring the wasted babbling. “And you’re drunk. You don’t
know what you’re talking about.” And he probably won’t even remember this anyway, come
tomorrow. For someone who happens to be built like an oak tree, Sam’s an unbelievable
lightweight. The second his brother flips from overly touchy pawing to maudlin navel-gazing, he’s
basically down for the count.

Sam does make a valiant attempt at clarity though. “There’s people I care about still there,” he
garbles. “Brady will have graduated and Luis won’t talk to me, but Rebecca took a semester off.
She’ll still be there for another year.”

Rebecca—wait, Dean remembers Rebecca. “She was the cute blonde one, right?” he asks. Then
he smirks a little to himself. “Hey, you two ever hook up? She seemed like she would’ve been
down for it.”
Sam makes a nauseated face. “Ugh, no, Dean. She was my friend.”

“You and I are very different people, my brother.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Sam mumbles into the mattress under his cheek.

Dean holds his breath and waits for Sam to pop up again. To tell him that he’s joking. That he’s
just running his mouth or something. But he doesn’t. “You need to let this go, Sam,” Dean says
on an eventual sigh. “You can’t…” He breaks off with a pained sound, his words too honest and
too quiet. “You can’t just be happy here with me?” He’d never have asked it if Sam wasn’t four
sheets to the wind by now. If he thought there was even an inkling that his brother would
remember this in the morning.

He’s not even really asking Sam so much as he’s asking himself.

“I wasn’t happy at Stanford.” Sam breathes the confession out into the dark air. Like if he says it
quietly enough, then he can pretend he didn’t, later. Not like Sam isn’t gonna do that anyway
though. Dean knows how he operates. Whatever’s being said tonight, no matter how true, will
never see the light of day again. “I mean, I wasn’t not happy,” he mumbles. “Sometimes I was
really happy. Sort of. I just…” He clumsily reaches for his pillow to shove under his face, then
seems to think better of it, and tosses it away to grab Dean’s instead. “And the way you say it,”
Sam continues, hugging the thing. “You treat it like I fucking abandoned you.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want to imply that,” Dean says dryly, forcing himself to keep his expression
neutral and shoving back the little voice in his head that’s suddenly screaming—You did, you did,
you fucking did!

His brother drunkenly rolls over to one side as he picks up the thread of thought again. “I asked
you to come with me, Dean.” Sam fixes him with a mournful stare, his pupils just a little uneven
as he sways above the covers. “I wanted you to— Fuck, I practically begged you,” he spits.

“Yeah,” Dean says roughly, “and that was shitty too.” He paces away, along the length of the
room, trying to strangle his temper back, then gets right back into his brother’s face when he can’t.
“You fucking left us, Sam,” he says accusingly, all the poison leaking out now that it’s been given
the opportunity. He’s finally bringing this whole damn thing out into the open even if it destroys
them both. He can’t keep it down any more. He won’t. “You left Dad. And then you asked me to
leave him too. After everything that happened with Mom. You asked me to leave him alone, with
nothing.”

“He’d still have his mission,” Sam says, with more spite in his voice than guilt. “His revenge.
Only thing he cared about.”

“Don’t be a shithead.”

“Don’t be a bootlicker,” Sam artlessly throws in his face, trying to make it hurt.

Dean just lets it bounce off his stone walls. “You actually think Dad doesn’t care about us?” he
asks, with as much condescension in his tone as he can physically cram in there.

Sam rolls back over and buries his face in Dean’s pillow, chagrined now, even if it’s only a little.
“Of course I don’t think that.”

And Dean wins, he guesses, with Sam’s capitulation. Sort of. It doesn’t feel like a victory though.
“He’s doing the best he can, Sam,” he says firmly. His older brother voice. Trying to put a lid on
this whole thing before it blows up into something bigger the way it’s so clearly straining to. He
can’t afford to piss off Sam so much that he’ll run again. Not right now.

But his brother’s never really been a team player at heart. “Maybe that’s not enough,” he says
quietly. Just loud enough that Dean can’t ignore it without losing.

He clenches his jaw tight and squares his footing, trying to keep his breathing even. “What the hell
is that supposed to mean?” he asks stiffly. But Sam doesn’t move a muscle in response. It’s
fucking infuriating. “You know, it’s not Dad’s job to be liked,” Dean says, “it’s his job to raise—”

“Oh my God, Dean,” Sam interrupts, flailing back upright in sheer resentment. “If you say ‘raise
us right’ I’m gonna fucking deck you.”

“You’ve heard it enough times, you think you’d fucking remember it,” he swears right back. As if
Sam has any right to look down his nose at him. As if Dean’s the idiot for doing anything he can
to desperately try and piece their broken family back together. He doesn’t want to fight with his
brother right now, hell, he’s half afraid the kid will just as likely puke on him as yell at him, but
Sam’s spoiling for it with every sullen glare and every sharp word, and Dean’s only human. He
knew their unresolved bout from last night would come back to bite him in the ass. He just didn’t
know it would be this soon.

“Dad’s not a freaking camp counselor, Sam,” he says, furious as all get-out because Sam knows
exactly how to push all his buttons. “He’s a hunter. We’re hunters. You are too, no matter how
much you try to cowardly weasel away from it.”

“Screw you, Dean,” he snaps at him.

“And you know what hunters do, asshat?” Dean asks viciously. “They keep their heads down and
do the damn job. They don’t whine and complain about how tough their life is.”

Sam violently scrambles upright, practically listing back and forth as he glares down at him.
“Screw you, Dean,” he bites out. “You have no idea what it’s like.”

“What? Being an angsty little ingrate?”

“You have no fucking idea. You say you want me to come back and be in this with you, and I do
because I can’t fucking help myself, but it isn’t a happy little picnic for me like it is for you. It’s
goddamn torture.”

Dean rolls his eyes so hard he’s pretty sure people can see it from space. “Oh, boo-hoo,” he
mocks, “hunting is hard.”

“Not hunting, Dean,” Sam says starkly. “You.”

And it’s like all the air has been sucked from the room. In vino veritas. Dean can almost hear the
actual crack as his heart breaks into halves. It feels like he’ll never be able to breathe again.

“Being with you is torture,” Sam continues, too drunk to log Dean’s silent plunge into despair.
“Every second of every day. And there’s no way to explain it to you ‘cause you’d never
understand. How could you?” he asks, bitter self-loathing curling its way around his words. “How
could anyone?”

Dean swallows around the painful lump in his throat and digs his fingernails into his palms until
they sting. His absolute worst nightmare has just come true—the only thing he’s ever really feared
in his horror show of a life—and he can’t do anything but stand there and take it. “Well, if you
hate being around me so damn much,” he snarls out, rigid and too wet, “then why don’t you just
up and take off again? Head back to California or New York or goddamn China!” He violently
regrets the words the instant they fly from his mouth. Even now, most of him wants to drop to his
knees and beg Sam not to leave him. But he can’t. The molten, roiling miasma of his anger won’t
let him.

Sam reels back like he’s just been punched. “What?” he breathes. “I don’t hate being around
you.” And he sounds anxious and confused. Like he’s the victim here. Like he has any right
whatsoever to be looking at him like some puppy Dean has just kicked and then left out in the
rain. “I could never—”

“You sure about that?” Dean interrupts him with a vicious hiss. “Because that damn well sounds
like what you just said.”

Bleak awareness slowly flutters down over his brother’s eyes. “No, Dean, that’s not what I
meant.”

“Because being around me is torture for you,” he spits back at him.

“That’s not—”

“It’s why you left before.”

“Dean—”

“So go ahead, Sam. Go ahead and find some girl and live some stupid normal life without me!”

“It’s too much, alright?” Sam finally lashes out, his chest heaving under his too-thin t-shirt. “Is that
what you wanna hear?” he shouts. “It’s too much being around you and not being able to—” Sam
abruptly snaps his teeth closed with a painful-sounding clack, caging in his own words before they
can escape. Then he stares at Dean with a helpless, desperate sort of horror. Like he’s in shock
over the very thing he was about to say.

“Not being able to what, Sam?”

Sam opens and closes his mouth a few times, the sudden, icy fear in his eyes making him look like
a fish having a heart attack. “Nothing,” he lets out on a terrified whisper.

And god, this is the second time this exact thing has happened tonight. It makes Dean want to tear
his fucking hair out. Actually, it makes him want to tear Sam’s hair out until he’ll open his
goddamn mouth and speak. “No, dumbass,” Dean contradicts him. “Clearly it isn’t ‘nothing’ or
you wouldn’t be bringing all this up now.” But his brother has already started to shove down all
his fears and emotions, packing all the tender parts neatly away in an impenetrable lockbox.
There’s no way Dean’s getting in, not now, not ever.

Though something about this conversation, about Sam’s reaction to this conversation, is tickling at
him like it’s familiar. Just a slight flickering catching the edges of his memory. Something from
years ago.

“Wait a second,” Dean says suspiciously, trying to piece together the half-remembered snatches of
conversation, tinny and staticky over a long-distance phone line, “is this about…?” But he doesn’t
even need to finish his sentence. Because there may be nothing left of Sam right now other than
stubbornness and over six feet of perpetually simmering resentment, but the nervous guilt at being
caught out in a lie still comes through crystal clear. “Oh my fucking—are you serious?”

“Don’t,” Sam warns him darkly.

“All this,” he clarifies, waving his arms to nebulously indicate their entire fight, “is about that one
fucking phone call?” Their last fucking phone call for two whole years.

Because Sam might have walked out on hunting that awful night, and their dad, but he hadn’t
walked out on Dean. Not technically. And Dean had clung to that loophole with every fiber of his
being. They’d still kept in contact his first couple years at school, even if they never saw each
other in person. Sam was receptive to periodic phone calls, and Dean would pathetically lap up
any scraps he could get. Both his brother and his father had been too damn stubborn to apologize
over the phone though. Because god forbid the two of them could actually talk to each other like
fucking humans. No, Sam preferred to flimsily pretend that he had never even heard of hunting for
the duration of the calls and John preferred to secretly drive up to Palo Alto and back to check up
on him without getting caught, leaving Dean strung out in the middle as his very edges frayed
apart.

But Sam had dialed his cell number one night, roughly two years in—an absolute rarity,
considering that ninety percent of the time it was Dean who caved first. Usually once every couple
weeks or so. His little brother had called him up at four in the fucking morning, and then again,
and again, until he’d blearily picked up. Like Sam didn’t even care that decent people were
generally unconscious at that hour. Dean had expected him to be drunk—or high and paranoid on
what Sam, to this day, insists was just oregano—but he had been stone-cold sober.

It was the sound of it that Dean remembers the most. The frantic, hitching half-breaths that
couldn’t technically be called sobs. Crackling and fuzzy over the line. No decent reception in that
ass-end of nowhere motel Dean had been staying at. Sam had spit up some unintelligible garbage
about how ‘wrong’ he was—some self-pitying religious crap that Pastor Jim must have managed
to sneak into the kid despite Dean’s best efforts. He’d moved on, his argument confusing and
erratic, into how desperate he was for Dean to understand why he had to leave. Not chose to. Had
to. As if some big, bad puppet master was the one pulling his fucking strings. Always some
ambiguous other to blame instead of taking responsibility for his own goddamn actions. And then
Sam had launched into a spiel about how much he missed him. About how much he loved him
but couldn’t be around him.

And Dean had finally snapped.

“It is,” he says coolly, slowly filtering back into the present. “This is that same bullshit from
before. Where you throw a fit, beg me to fix it for you, and then tear into me when I do. Like a
fucking toddler.”

“That, Dean,” Sam says indignantly. “In case you’re wondering, that is exactly why I stopped
picking up when you called.”

Dean stares at his brother in bewildered exasperation, clueless at how Sam could possibly pin that
on him. “I asked you to come home.”

Sam glares at him, so mad he’s almost fuming. “No, you told me to come home,” he corrects him.

And Dean lets his mouth drop open in disbelief, unable to believe how much Sam cares about the
fucking semantics. “You called me up, almost in tears,” he reminds him, “crying about how much
you missed me after you were the one who left. You brought the whole fucking thing on yourself
—and me—and then called me to complain about how sad you were. I was trying to make it
better,” he says emphatically.

“That’s not how I remember it,” Sam whispers coldly.

And yeah, okay, Dean maybe may have been a little more colorful than he’s allowing at the
moment, but Sam’s a big boy. He can handle a few harsh words. “It’s called tough love,” he says.
“It’s called being a fucking asshole.”

Dean lets out a wild scoff at Sam’s refusal to budge because there’s no way he can still be this
hung up over the details of one conversation. It’s been years. “Oh, come on,” he protests. “What
did you do, record the call?” But something in his brother’s eyes alerts him to the truth of it. A
guilty flicker that tells Dean he’s just landed on the board, if not quite hit the bull’s-eye. “Or did
you just memorize the fucking thing?” he asks slowly, the realization dawning on him. “Keep
replaying it over and over again in your head so you could stew over how unfair and cruel I was.”
Of course he did. That’s such a fucking Sam thing to do. “Yeah, that sounds like you.”

“I barely even remember it, Dean,” Sam lies, in his lying tone of voice which mean he’s lying.

“Oh, so you need a play-by-play then?” Dean asks, stalking forward until they’re nose-to-nose
and glaring. Sam’s breath is almost pure alcohol. He stinks like paint-thinner. “Well let’s see if this
will jog your memory,” he says, paraphrasing as best he can the tirade he’d unleashed over the
phone two years ago. “You need to cut this shit out, Sam. You need to stop it right now. You
wanna throw a bratty little tantrum and storm off? Fine. But Dad’s indulged your stupid, selfish
pity party for long enough. So this is me, officially, telling you what an ass you’re being. It’s time
to drop all this Stanford bullshit and come the fuck home, you ungrateful little bitch.”

“Fine,” Sam barks, shoving hard at his chest. Dean has to even stumble back a few paces not to
fall. “You wanna take a trip down memory lane?” he asks, just as hostile. “If I recall correctly, our
last conversation, I think I said something along the lines of, ‘Go fuck yourself.’ I had a life there,
Dean.” He swings a depictive arm out, almost whacking his knuckles against a table lamp as he
drunkenly gestures. “I had people who cared about me and believed in my future and didn’t try to
guilt or bully me out of my dreams like you and Dad did.”

“Right,” Dean scoffs. “Because how dare your family want you to be with them. How dare we
want you safe.”

“Safe?” he echoes. “Safe?” Sam’s eyes almost boggle out of his head in pure outrage as he gawps
at him. “Do you even hear yourself? Dad spent our whole childhoods shoving us directly into the
jaws of the scariest fucking monsters he could find! I had to stab a witch through the chest when I
was sixteen years old, Dean! A person—a human woman! There aren’t even enough words for
how fucked-up that is!”

“He was protecting us, Sam!” Dean shouts right back. “Teaching us how to fight, so we’d know
what to do when one of those same monsters came busting down our doors! And it looks like
you’re still alive to me, so maybe you should fucking thank the man!” Dean shoves Sam in return,
silently gloating when he teeters dangerously before finding his balance again. “You know what?”
Dean says, quieter, but no less heated. “You haven’t changed at all. You’re selfish, Sam, and I
ain’t gonna apologize for telling the truth. Not then, and not now.”

Sam’s eyes go deadly blank, shuttered, like it’s taking everything in him to remain calm. “What
you said—” he says, stilted and threateningly slow. “What you said to me during that call wasn’t
the truth.”

And suddenly, all the pieces of that night finally fall into place. Because of course—of course
that’s what Sam’s real issue is. “God, that’s what this is all about, isn’t it?” Dean lets out on a
breath of sheer disbelief. “You didn’t cut me off because I called you on your shit. You cut me off
because I compared you to Dad.”

Sam shoots him a glare more withering than he’s ever seen, like he’s trying to set Dean’s hair on
fire with just his eyes. He could give Stanley Kubrick a run for his money. “Don’t you dare
fucking say it, Dean. Not again.”
“Why?” Dean mocks. “Because you don’t wanna be like Dad? Well too-fucking-late, Sam.
You’re the exact same person. A stubborn, self-righteous, blinders-on—”

Sam tackles him around the middle before Dean can even finish his sentence, knocking the wind
out of him and slamming them both back against the heavy wooden dresser. Dean’s spine is
screaming at him, jammed hard and dragging against sharp, uneven wood, but he gets two
uncompromising arms around his brother’s neck and waist, one leg up around the back of his calf,
and he’s got them flipped in a matter of moments. He smashes Sam into the wood in revenge, his
brother grunting and scrabbling violently at the turnabout, and manages to keep him there for all of
two seconds before Sam is surging forward again to send them both stumbling into the middle of
the room.

Dean counters every wild blow Sam throws at him, just enough to keep them both on their feet,
and sizes up his odds, determining how he needs to play this to get his brother face-down.
Because Sam isn’t exactly graceful, but he’s quick—in both senses of the word—and strong as a
fucking bull on steroids. One misplaced step or overlooked vulnerability and Sam’s gonna have all
the advantage he needs to get Dean pinned in one forceful push, even sloshed like he is. But the
kid’s also top-heavy. You tackle him low enough and his skinny legs just go right out from
underneath him. And one of the main things Dean remembers from his days on the Hurleyville
J.V. wrestling team is that you always go right for the other guy’s weak spot.

He ducks low and rockets forward, folding Sam in half over his back and keeping a tight hold on
his legs as he follows through, taking him down in one continuous move. Sam’s back hits the
floor with a whumpf of air, but he doesn’t give Dean the opportunity to get a better hold on him.
He doesn’t even take a second to recuperate, his pain receptors probably dulled from all the booze,
and he’s kicking and grabbing at his wrists before Dean can get him fully pinned.

It won’t matter though, this far into it. Sam may have the reach, but Dean’s got finely-honed skill
on his side. And four years of hard, violent living while Mr. Academia here was sitting around
going soft. Dean gets his brother’s arms behind his back in under a minute, employing old, half-
remembered wrestling positions to get Sam twisted up into a pretzel and eating carpet. They’re
both panting heavily, Sam’s wriggling ass pressed hard against his front as he tries to struggle
away, like a parody of the lovers they’re supposed to be here. But it still feels so damn good that
he jams his face into the back of his brother’s neck and inhales.

In fact, it feels so good that Dean forgets that Sam tends to play dirty when he’s pissed. He isn’t
fast enough to dodge his brother’s head suddenly jerking back to smash him in the face and Sam
scrambles out of his hold while Dean’s still reeling from his busted nose. He gets him flipped on
his back before he can blink the dizzy stars out of his eyes, Sam pinning his wrists down to the rug
and smugly straddling his lower half with the substantial weight of his own body. The
motherfucker cheated, but he won, and Dean bucks up in helpless anger against Sam’s hold on
him—and up against something hard and hot digging into his hip. He only realizes what it is
seconds after Sam does, and the blood drains from his brother’s face so fast that Dean’s actually
half concerned he’s gonna pass out. Dean’s not entirely sure what the big deal is. It’s not like it’s
never happened before, for either of them. Cost of doing business when you’ve got someone
else’s warm body writhing against yours. But Sam scrabbles back like he’s been bitten by a snake.

“You’re just—you’re just jealous, Dean,” Sam stutters fiercely, trying to reclaim any scraps of his
dignity that he can after what just happened, “you know that? You can’t stand the fact that I had
someone! That I was leaving you behind because I had Jess and I didn’t need you anymore!”

The words spear him deep. Tear him up in that soft, vulnerable place only Sam seems to know
how to get to. “Fuck you,” Dean snarls back, a little too throaty. “You had nothing, Sam.” He sits
up unsteadily until he’s braced on his elbows, his face still pounding hot and painful from where
he’d head-butted him. “Jessica didn’t even know who you were,” he spits. “You lied to her the
whole time you were together. Pretending you were normal. Pretending you had no blood on your
hands. Pretending you could fit in with a bunch of civvies while you played house with a girl who
knew nothing about you.” It’s the meanest thing he could possibly say. Sam thought that phone
call was the most vicious Dean could be? Wait until he gets a load of him swinging for the fucking
fences. “That isn’t real, Sam,” Dean says, cold as freezing fire. “That isn’t anything.”

The destroyed flash of hurt that tears across his brother’s eyes sends Dean’s stomach roiling with
instant guilt. Why had he done that? What the fuck is wrong with him? He expects Sam to punch
him in the face—hell, he deserves it—braces for it even, but Sam just slams his eyelids shut,
lurches to his feet, and heads straight for the door.

Dean chokes on his own apology and raises a hand after him. “Sam, wait—”

But his brother is gone before he can get up, the door slamming deafeningly shut behind him like
Sam does whenever he’s furious.

He’s fucking done it again.

Sam has left again.

Dean has pushed him to it again.

He let Sam slip from his fingers, just like he promised himself he’d never do after he got him back.
And then he promised himself that exact same thing again when it happened again. Over and
over, like the worst bad habit Dean can’t seem to shake. They just keep falling into the same
patterns and repeating stupid mistakes, no matter how hard they try not to. And knowing Sam’s
patterns, he’s probably headed straight into the goddamn everglades. Dean’s positive, he’s just
positive that the gardens aren’t gonna be enough solitude for his brother. Not when he’d so easily
tracked Dean down the night before. Sam’s a runner. Always has been. And when he runs, he
runs far. Far like out into the very place all those morons had died in.

Dean shoves down the sodden wad of fear sitting like a lump in his gut and pulls out his phone
from his back pocket, flipping it open and shooting off a text message to his brother’s number.

ur fucking smashed sam. u cant just run out in2 the wilderness cuz we had a fight. it aint safe.

He waits impatiently for Sam to answer. For him to write back, even if it’s just to tell him to go
fuck himself. But no reply comes.

sam.

sammy cmon.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Abby isn’t at the desk this time when he desperately rounds the corner to the main area. Instead,
it’s a tall, thin guy with graying sideburns and a Clark Gable moustache. Dean just knows beyond
a shadow of a doubt that this must be the jerkass he’d first talked to on the phone. He raises an
unimpressed eyebrow at Dean’s approach.

“I’m, uh, looking for my br—boyfriend,” Dean corrects himself quickly, mentally patting himself
on the back for the expert catch. He stretches his arm up way past his head, far as it can go.
“About yea high. Dumb hair, like he thinks he’s in The Beatles. You seen him around?”

The man gives him a brief once-over, catching and hanging on his mouth just for a moment like
something about him is familiar, and Dean silently prays that he won’t be recognized. Impossible
and irrational as the fear is. “Yes,” the man says finally, and his voice is just as snooty as Dean
remembers. “I believe I have.” He lets out a sniff and gestures toward the front door. “A rather
tall, inebriated young man passed through the lobby not long ago.” His tone very clearly indicates
what he’d thought of that particular spectacle. “Do please catch him before he draws any negative
attention back to the hotel,” he adds with a dismissive glance, then goes back to his bookkeeping.

Dean just barely manages to bite back a comment about how the hotel doesn’t seem to have any
trouble drumming up negative attention all on its own, but he appreciates the tip, regardless.
“Thanks,” he says tightly, trying his hardest to remain civil, and then sprints out into the world
after his brother.

He doesn’t waste his time establishing a likely search perimeter. He just heads right for the
swamp, where he knows his brother will be. Mostly, because it’s the one place he doesn’t want
him to be. That’s just how stuff ends up working out with Sam. Dean’s used to it by now.

Dean jams his hands into his jacket pockets and crosses the road with barely a longwise glance, no
cars to be found at this hour, then ducks under the thicket of low-sweeping leaves marking out the
edge of the bayou proper. It’s darker beneath the cover of the trees, without any street lights to
guide his way, but Dean only allows himself a handful of seconds for his eyes adjust. He doesn’t
have time for anything more.

The trees themselves are towering, larger the closer they get to the main body of water, and Dean
has to willfully ignore the sickeningly squelch of the mud pulling at the treads in his boots with
every step he moves further in.

“Sam!” he calls out, first in one direction, then another. “Sammy!” The echo of his voice booms
back across the water, accompanied by a scattered wave of chirping crickets, but no human calls
back. His brother must be deeper in.

Dean lowers his head and picks up his pace, scouring through his old memories and trying to dig
up some of the outdoor tracking skills Bobby had tried to teach them when they were kids—while
he and Sam spent the whole time whining about being bored, generally ignoring him, and outright
refusing to hurt any deer. God, Dean wants to go back in time and smack the stupid out of
himself. The bayou is probably safe by now, given their main suspect’s run for the proverbial
border, but he and Sam have both been wrong before. What if Donald isn’t fleeing from them?
What if he’s craftier than he looks? What if he’s lying in wait to catch one of them at an off
moment?

Dean almost trips over a felled, gnarled log, swearing under his breath for not paying attention to
his surroundings, then almost does a double-take at the way it looks like it’s reaching out over the
water with its bony, brittle fingers. Like the wood itself is malevolently seeking out his brother,
blindly wandering around somewhere in the dark heart of the marsh.

“Shit, Sam,” Dean hisses to himself. “This is the stupidest freaking thing you’ve ever done.” Then
he twists on his ankle, digging a wide gouge out of the muck, and hurls his anger and terror
outward. “You hear that, fucker?” he shouts out over the bog. “Worse than Flagstaff!” But no one
answers him other than a couple of croaking frogs. So he picks a direction and starts moving
again, not even stopping to question if it’s the right way.

The trees surrounding him get bigger the longer he walks, so huge their roots are almost as thick
around as an average trunk, and rising up out of the gloomy water like they’re trying to get up and
walk away. It doesn’t help the creep factor that they’re practically devoid of any leaves other than
the matted, ashy clumps of Spanish moss dripping down from the higher branches. Plus, there’s a
cloudy film of something—algae maybe, or pond scum, or whatever the hell was in that boiler
room—gracing the surface of the water and casting everything with a grayish-green tint. If it
wasn’t for the overwhelming call of insects, running counterpoint to the sporadic lapping of the
water against the mud, Dean might think he was the only thing alive in here.

He’s about to give up on this direction completely and head back to come up with a smarter search
plan when he suddenly spots a disturbance in the foliage. Like something big and heavy stumbled
through, breaking and tearing any long stems in its way. It was either a buck or his drunk little
brother and Dean rushes in to take a closer look, tugging aside the thick stalks of grass until he
sees it. A massive sneaker footprint, size 12, and perfectly preserved by the thick sludge around it.

“Thank Christ,” Dean lets out on a breath.

“Dean?”

He snaps back upright. That’s his brother’s voice alright, clear as day, and Dean almost collapses
into the muck below him he’s so relieved. “Sam?” he calls back, hands cupped around his mouth
to direct the sound. He takes a few steps closer in and shouts again. “Sammy, are you alright?
Where are you?”

“I’m sorry, Dean.” Somewhere to his left. Closer to the water. Dean changes course and follows
the curve of the murky shore, keeping an eye out for more footprints. “I’m sorry about our fight,”
Sam continues, his untethered voice drifting out between the misty trees. “About everything I
said.” Dean clocks the source and silently begs his brother to keep talking, heading in the direction
of the sound. “I’m sorry about Stanford,” Sam says after another moment, and Dean can’t hold
back the derisive scoff this time.

“Well, now I know you’re wasted,” he tosses back, loud enough for Sam to hear him. He’s trying
to aim for funny, but he thinks he probably sounds a little resentful too. He doesn’t think he can
help it.

“I did it for your own good.”

“Well, that’s a convenient excuse,” Dean says bitterly. “You wanna shoot out my kneecaps for
my own good too?” He reins his knee-jerk defensiveness back in, takes a deep breath, then
exhales, letting his anger out on it as well. This isn’t the fucking time. Dean can ream his little
brother out all he wants once he’s got Sam safe and dry and back in their hotel room. “Look,
Sam,” he admits, “what I said about Jessica—I know I crossed a line, man. Like, way crossed a
line. I didn’t mean it, okay? So, me too…with the whole sorry thing.”

Sam’s quiet for so long that Dean almost thinks he’s finally blacked out. “I need you,” he says
eventually, clear and pleading.

“What?” Dean asks in sharp concern. “Why? Are you hurt? Jesus, Sam. This is why it ain’t smart
to go tromping around the everglades with ten slugs of tequila in you.” He ducks under a hanging
branch, cursing the fact that he never seems to get any closer to his brother’s voice. It’s like every
step he takes forward, Sam steps back. Keeping just out of reach. Leading him who knows where.
“I don’t care how pissed you were,” he says. “You could’ve been eaten by the very fucking thing
we’re hunting. This is exactly how all those idiots died, Sam.”

“No, Dean. I mean I need you.” And something about the inflection, the intent of it, sends Dean’s
nerves skittering under his skin. “Always have,” Sam says regretfully. “I’m made wrong like that.
Need you in all the ways I shouldn’t. You were never supposed to know.”

Dean chokes on his own breath and has to manually remind his lungs to start working again. What
Sam’s saying—what Sam’s hinting… Dean slams his defenses back up and desperately tries to
shove away all the little puzzle pieces that keep wanting to settle into place. Every time his brother
blushed and sputtered at one of his more suggestive comments this week, every shifting moment
of discomfort due to all the fakey couple stuff, every unexplained bit of jealousy that Dean
couldn’t quite put a finger on. Until now.

Or maybe…maybe it went back even further than that.

“You—you’re drunk, Sam,” Dean finally stammers out. “Your eyeballs are practically floating in
booze. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But Sam doesn’t let up, brutally honest in his confession. “I couldn’t stand the feelings. What I
wanted to do to you. What I wanted you to do to me.” Dean’s mouth goes Sahara-dry and his
heart starts making a break for his throat. Dean barely has enough presence of mind to swallow it
back before it can escape. “That’s why I left in the first place,” Sam says, “—or part of why I left,
at least. I did a bunch of research about it. Sexual Imprinting—that’s what it’s called. All the
books said it would help if I removed myself from the situation. If I met other people, broadened
my horizons. That it would stop me from wanting you. Craving you, your touch—”

“Sam, shut up!” Heat is pooling in his loins now, so urgent Dean can barely stop himself from
roughly shoving the heel of his hand against his clothed dick. Adrenaline—that’s what it is.
Probably only causing a reaction because it got all mixed up with the Spanish fly shit from the
hotel. Dean’s never staying in another goddamn couples resort for as long as he lives. “Now get
your ass out of there before some freaking swamp monster hears you and decides you’d make a
good snack.”

Sam ignores him, and he’s gotta be continuing on just to be cruel at this point. “But it didn’t help,”
his brother explains. “Even after everything that happened. School. Jess. The fire.” He pauses
again, probably just for drama, and Dean hates that he’s falling for it hook, line, and sinker.
Hanging on his every word like some pathetic schoolgirl with a crush. “I still want you, jerk,”
Sam says. “Every part of you. …And I know you want me too.”

Dean physically balks at the assumption. Sam’s little break from sobriety is one thing, but this?
Implying that Dean is the one who— “What are you even—?” he tries to ask, halting and twitchy,
and forgetting most of the words even as he says them. “Sam, you’re acting crazy.”

“You can have it, Dean,” Sam promises, steamrolling right over his weak, half-formed protests.
“I’ll let you. Hell, I’ll beg you for it. On my knees.” Dean forgets to breathe again, only this time
he’s not sure if he ever needs to again. And just as he’s finally managed to get himself under
control enough to start thinking clearly, Sam adds, “Or on my back.” And Dean’s legs almost go
out from underneath him. It’s only the death-grip he’s got on a hanging vine that keeps him from
falling face-first into the mud. He’s gonna die. He’s gonna have a heart-attack and die right here
from nothing more than the tantalizing sin spilling from his brother’s mouth. “You can have
everything you’ve ever wanted,” Sam offers temptingly. “Everything you’ve ever dreamed. You
just need to come to me.”

Dean can’t be considering this. He can’t be. “Look, why don’t you come out here instead?” he
says, making one last play for sanity. “We can head back to the road and we can talk.”

His brother lets out an amused hum. “I can’t, Dean. If you want me—all of me—like I want you,
then you need to come to me.”
“Dude, what is this, some kind of test?” Dean barks out grumpily. “There’s snakes and gators and
crap in there. I’m not going into the fucking swamp.” But he keeps creeping closer to the familiar
sound of his brother’s voice, regardless. No magic or coercion, just his own two feet carrying him
to wherever Sam is. Like they’re meant to do.

Sam laughs at Dean’s grumbling, strong and clear. Like he’s happy. “Not a test, Dean. I just need
you. Your mouth. Your hands.” Dean feels the last few slivers of his restraint start to buckle.
“Come to me,” he says, and he sounds closer now.

“Jesus, Sammy…I can’t. We can’t.”

“We can. Come to me.”

Dean sweeps a hanging curtain of willow leaves aside, determinedly wading ankle-deep into the
water to finally come face-to-face with his brother. Sam, standing alive and beautiful right in front
of him. And goddamn unconscious—only managing to appear somewhat upright because he’s
been duct-taped to a fucking tree.

A blinding pain cracks sharply against the back of his head before Dean can even turn around and
his vision blurs black as he hits the ground with a muted splash.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Dean comes to, he’s staring square at Sam again. Except he’s now in the exact same
predicament, duct-taped to another thick tree directly across from his brother. And his bonds are
tight. Tighter than he can wriggle free of without some pretty serious stall-tactics. Once wide and
tight across his chest and once binding his wrists against his thighs. Plus, if he’s listing petty
complaints, he’s wet and muddy all along his right side and the swamp is seeping in through his
boots.

A flash of teetering movement catches Dean’s attention and he flits his gaze to the shadowy figure
slowly creeping up on his brother, who still looks to be out cold. Like it’s thinking about maybe
chowing down on the easy prey.

“Hey,” Dean barks sharply, and his brother rustles awake just as the figure whips its head around
to glare at the interruption. And Dean has seen things in his life that would turn a priest’s hair
white, but he still almost winces at the gruesome look of the creature.

It’s a woman—or something like it, at least. With a sharp row of spindly, brown teeth piercing
through her raw gums. But something’s off about the picture, Dean realizes. There’s too much
space in her mouth. The lower half of her face looks wrong somehow. Like it’s longer than it
should be, her chin almost grazing the shadow of her collar bones. A sick jolt of disgust runs
through him once he realizes what the problem is. Her jaw is unhinged. It’s swinging loose against
her chest, like a snake about to devour something the size of its own head.

She grins at his reaction—or, he thinks it’s supposed to be a grin—and slowly, joltingly clicks her
jaw back into place, bit by bit. It isn’t until she resembles something remotely human again that
Dean realizes where he’s seen that perky silhouette and cropped, dark hair before.

It’s Abby. Fucking Abby from the front desk. Fucking ‘Thank you, sir, please let me know what I
can do to enhance your stay’ Abby.
“Dean?” his brother groans, blearily reaching for consciousness. Then he flinches back himself
once he takes stock of their situation. Or, as best he can while trussed up to a tree wider around
than he is.

Abby laughs at Sam’s recoil, bright and perky like everything else she’s done this whole week,
then tosses his brother’s words right at Dean. “Dean,” she coos teasingly. “Dean, I need you.”
And his jaw drops open, because it’s Sam’s mellow voice slithering out of her throat. To a fucking
tee. Even Dean would be fooled—was fooled—by the perfect mimicry. “I’m so sorry about what
I said,” she taunts, low and breathy and masculine. “I just need you.”

Then she shifts her attention to Sam, a self-amused smile lighting up her features as she closes in
on his brother. “Sam, where are you?” she echoes in Dean’s rougher baritone and Sam’s eyes go
wide. Not that Dean’s doing much better on his end. It’s unnerving as fuck hearing his own voice
coming out of someone else’s mouth, especially considering the tiny chick standing in front of
him, and Dean clenches his jaw in anger as he realizes how she’d caught them both. “C’mon,
Sammy,” she continues in Dean’s voice—making him sound desperate, like he’s got tears in his
throat, “please, where are you?”

And of course—of course this is how she’d snared all her other victims. She mimicked the people
they cared about in order to lure them deeper into the swamp. The poor saps probably heard the
voices of the very lovers they were vacationing here with. Just like she’d done with them. And
who wouldn’t go charging into the wild to protect their spouse, regardless of the warnings? Or to
try and make up after a painful fight? Dean swallows back bile and can’t help but think about the
woman Sam had mentioned a couple days back. The one who’d died, alone and afraid, after the
fight with her estranged husband. She should have just left his ass. She’d still be alive.

“Well, I’ve gotta give you kudos,” Dean grits reluctantly through his teeth. “You weren’t ever
even on the suspect list. Our bad, really.”

Abby grins at the compliment like it’s sincere. “That’s good to know,” she says cheerily. In her
own voice again. “It’s always a jolt to the self-esteem to discover you’ve outwitted a couple of
hunters.” She glances back between the two of them and amends her statement slightly.
“Although, you two are fairly young. It would probably be a little more impressive if I’d taken on
a pair who had actually seen something like me before.”

“Yeah, but then you’d be mulch,” Sam says testily. “So, y’know, pros and cons.”

She ducks her head at the sarcasm like she’s charmed by it. “You don’t sound like you have much
faith in me,” Abby says, batting her eyelashes at him, and it sounds like she’s fucking flirting
again. Lighthearted and warmly teasing. “I did manage to get you exactly where I wanted you,
after all. Doesn’t that earn me some credit?”

“You had us pegged from the beginning?” Dean asks, itching to know where they went wrong on
this one. And maybe trying to get her attention off Sam a little bit too.

Abby lets a broad, satisfied smile spread over her face. “You’d be surprised at how good a read
you can get on someone from that very first moment they step up to the front desk. One
conversation, that’s all it takes, and it’s so obvious it’s almost too easy.” She casually meanders
over to his side, then leans in like she’s letting him in on some chummy little secret. “I can always
tell which prey I shouldn’t waste my time on,” Abby whispers playfully, “the ones who are too
cowardly to venture outside the hotel.” She flicks her eyes up to meet his, head-on, and fucking
laughs. “And I can always tell the ones who have something to prove,” she taunts, running a
friendly finger down the center of his chest. “It’s not hard to piece out which couples will argue,
which ones will sneak out here together on a dare—and once I get them separated, it’s so easy to
give each one exactly what they want. To tell them exactly what they need to hear.”
Dean firmly bites down on the edges of his tongue at the reveal. He’d been too occupied by the
problem at hand to put two-and-two together regarding the little goose chase she’d taken him on.
Sam never said those things in the bayou. Abby did. And she was lying through her rotten,
pricker-bush teeth the whole time. She was lying about everything. Dean clenches his fists at his
sides and yanks them hard as he can away from his thighs. He doesn’t get far, but the pain
grounds him a little. It’s okay. It’s what Dean deserves, really, for falling for an amateur hour stunt
like that. It shouldn’t be too hard to forget the perverted feelings she’d tricked him into. He can
pretend like it never happened. That is, if they manage to survive past tonight.

“I knew it would be an argument, by the way,” Abby says. “With you two.” She chuckles a little
as she reminisces, then directs her gaze back to Sam. Making sure to fairly include him in this little
tête-à-tête. “You couldn’t make it five minutes without snapping at each other,” she adds, lightly
chiding. “Arguers are my favorites. It makes it so much easier to catch you separately.” Abby lets
out a light sigh and crosses her arms under her chest. “I’m not criticizing you or anything though, I
do actually like you guys.”

“Funny way of showing it,” Sam says unevenly, and Dean belatedly realizes that he still must be a
little drunk.

She steps back like she’s legitimately affronted. “I eat once, maybe twice a year,” Abby says
emphatically. “That’s it. I don’t gorge myself. I only take what I need.” She even looks a little
proud of herself as she says it. “Sustainable farming, you could call it. It’s ethically responsible.”

“Well as long as you’re ethically responsible when it comes to your murder,” Sam spits
caustically, probably a bit more brazen than he would be sober.

Abby doesn’t take the bait, cool as a cucumber as she rationally argues her point. “I need to eat,”
she explains. “Same as you. How is it any different from the animals that your kind slaughters and
consumes?” And she sounds maddeningly sincere about it, like she expects them to applaud her
for restraint. “Food is food, right?”

Dean lets out a derisive sound. “Hey, the second some cows rise up and come after me with a
shotgun, they’re gonna have a legitimate case.”

“Well, maybe you should’ve brought a shotgun,” Abby jokes pleasantly.

She strides over to him, a subtle shift in her posture like she’s finally moving in for the kill, and
Dean racks his brain for a way out of this. He’s been tugging at his bonds from the second he
woke up and his wrists are a little looser than they were at the start, but not enough for him to get
free yet. They need to stall her some more. Dean presses himself back against his tree, trying to
put as much distance between them as possible, then almost lets out a breath of relief as his
thoughts snag on a viable possibility.

Abby had mentioned sizing them up that first day, but it still doesn’t explain how she’d known
what to say to him when she was pretending to be Sam. Because she’d done a better job at
imitating his brother than anything Dean’s ever seen. More convincing than a shifter, even. She’d
somehow known intimate things about him and Sam, about their lives, about the way they speak
to each other.

“Hey, wait,” Dean bites out, scrambling for a last resort. “Just tell me one thing, okay?” Abby
pauses like she’s intrigued, so Dean wets his lips and goes for broke. “How did you know what to
say?” he asks. “If you do like us, then you could at least tell us how you caught us, right?
Consider it a final request.”
Abby considers his appeal for a moment, tilting her head thoughtfully until another friendly smile
blooms over her face. “Humans,” she says, almost fondly in a macabre kind of way. “You’re
always so free and reckless with your communication.” She shakes her head a little and levels
him, then Sam with a knowing look. “It’s true that I wasn’t exactly sure how I was going to lure
you out here at first, but it was so ridiculously easy to give you what you both wanted. Combing
through your voicemails, your internet history, your text messages, the solution came to me in a
second. I couldn’t believe my luck.”

Dean sets his thoughts to racing as Abby obliviously continues on with her monologuing a few
feet away. How had she gained access to their internet history? Snuck into the room and hacked
their laptop while they were out? But that doesn’t explain the texts. Or the voicemails, unless she’d
somehow overheard them in the moment. Dean had his phone on him the entire time, other than
when he was actually sleeping, but their room was warded up the ass. He’d made sure of it
himself. No way in hell anything even remotely monster-ish was creeping in there after hours.
Especially not without waking him. So how the fuck had she obtained that information? Dean’s
got no idea what kind of creature has that level of mojo. Or can unhinge its entire jaw like a
goddamn snake—he has to bitterly admit to himself. They’re up against something completely
new here, and out of their goddamn depth.

“I mean, it’s no wonder you were able to fool everyone else in the hotel,” Abby continues
teasingly, as if he’d been paying rapt attention the last few minutes. “Bet you wanted an excuse
like that for a long time.”

“Look, just shut up, okay?” Sam’s eyes are bright with panic when he glances over, and Dean has
no clue why. “You’ve already got us where you want us,” his brother says, gaze flicking to Dean
and then immediately away again. “Just kill us already.”

Dean makes an attempt at telekinetically strangling Sam for trying to speed up their murder
without an escape plan, but Abby doesn’t seem to share in his ignorance. “There’s no need to act
so shy around big brother,” she coos supportively. “He’s in the exact same boat.” She turns back
to Dean with an expectant smile. “Aren’t we?”

Dean looks from Abby to his brother and then back again, absolutely hating it when he feels like
he’s out of the loop. It’s embarrassing. He doesn’t want to be embarrassed in front of a goddamn
monster. “What are you talking about?” he asks, stiffly reluctant.

Abby actually takes a step back at his question, her brow creasing in amused confusion like she
thinks he’s playing some sort of joke on them. It isn’t until his expression doesn’t budge that hers
does. “Wait,” she says with dawning excitement, “you don’t know?” And then she laughs her
goddamn ass off. Head thrown back and eyes slammed shut as she cracks up in the middle of a
freaking swamp. “Seriously?” Abby wheezes after a few moments, wiping actual tears of
amusement from her cheeks. “I picked up on it immediately it was so pathetically obvious…and
you don’t even know? Wow, this is actually gonna be fun.” She walks right up to him, eager as a
fucking beaver to bat around her prey some more. “Let me enlighten you a little before you meet
your inevitable end,” Abby says playfully. “Sammy here has been in lo—”

Five explosive shots burst through her torso before she can get another word out, violently jolting
her body forward and splattering Dean’s chest in blood. She staggers just enough that Dean can
catch a glimpse of his brother over her shoulder, left arm free and a smoking pistol in his hand,
before she manages to regain her footing. Oh—Dean thinks. Guess that was the escape plan.
Though he has no freaking clue where Sam was hiding a handgun that she didn’t find. Down his
pants, maybe. Heh. Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

Abby sucks in a ragged, gasping breath, and Dean’s good mood instantly evaporates as she
lurches again, getting her bearings. “Um, Sam,” he suggests. “Maybe try silver?”
lurches again, getting her bearings. “Um, Sam,” he suggests. “Maybe try silver?”

“That was silver,” his brother says tightly.

Abby swivels her head around, way too calm for a lady who was just plugged through the chest
several times, and decisively stalks back over to Sam. “That was mean,” she says like her feelings
are hurt, and then grabs his brother’s face in one well-manicured hand. She doesn’t even make a
move for the gun. It’s harmless as a goddamn butter knife against her.

Sam grunts as she yanks him forward, those spindly stick teeth sprouting back up as her jaw
unhinges again, and then she leans forward as well—and Dean roars as he jerks helplessly against
his bonds—but instead of biting Sam, instead of clawing at his face or tearing his throat out or
bleeding him dry, she just breathes. And his brother gradually goes disconcertingly limp as what
looks like white, wispy smoke starts drifting out from his mouth.

And she’s inhaling it.

Dean tears at his restraints like a madman, desperately trying to get free to protect his brother. To
save him from the thing clutching at his face. Dean screams insults at her, the worst he can think
of, anything to get Abby to focus on him instead. Dean—silently pushes aside that ominous
bedroom door, knowing exactly what he’ll see when he does. That cloaked, black figure hunching
over Sammy’s face. Feeding. Hurting him. One spindly, clawed hand sprawled out on the bed
beside it. And Sam’s so small. Sammy’s so small, and Dean was supposed to protect him. He
wasn’t supposed to leave. Then the white light—that same, wispy, white light—gathering in the
decayed thing’s mouth. The unsettling whisper sound of it as it crouches down over his baby
brother. And Dean grabs the shotgun. He grabs the shotgun just like he’s supposed to but he
can’t make himself pull the trigger. This is his one job, his only job—keep Sammy safe—and he
can’t even do it. Sammy’s gonna die and it’s all his fault because he left. The gun makes a
clicking sound as he cocks it—because that’s all Dean can do—and then, the maw. That black,
gaping, ragged maw as the thing screamed. That whispery, inhuman scream. As the shtriga
turned its attention on him.

Dean sucks in a sharp breath and rips himself away from the terrifying, guilt-laced memories.
Their dad had crashed through the door just in the nick of time back then, playing the hero when
he couldn’t, but John isn’t here right now. Only Dean is. Only Dean can keep his little brother
safe and he isn’t nine-fucking-years old anymore. He’s a grown-ass man with a lifetime of skill
and experience to draw on. He’s fought and killed every single type of monster imaginable, and
he can even research with the best of them when he has to. Dean doesn’t have time to run down a
list of what could potentially eighty-six this thing—plus, their salt, flares, and stakes are back at the
car—but decapitation has always been their best bet. Dean can’t get free enough for that, and he
doesn’t exactly have a machete handy, but he never goes anywhere without an extra blade
strapped to his ankle.

He yanks with everything he’s got, letting the sight of Sam in danger bleed adrenaline into his
system until the tape scrapes the skin off his hand and he manages to tear one arm free. Dean’s
pulling the hidden knife from his boot in the next second. He’s letting it fly, straight and true, in
the second after that.

And his aim has always been fucking impeccable.

The blade shunks right into the back of Abby’s neck. Deep. Severing her spine in one quick act.
She probably doesn’t even feel any pain as she collapses, lifeless, into the swamp beneath them.
Her glassy eyes still open, half-submerged in the cloudy water as she reaps what she’d goddamn
sown.
Sam gasps loudly for air as he can suddenly breathe again, twitching against the sudden lack of
assault as he flails his left arm in front of him, his Taurus tumbling from nerveless fingers to splash
into the shallow water at his feet.

“Get away from him, you bitch,” Dean jokes tiredly.

And then his brother laughs. Exhausted and terrified and more air than sound, but it’s still a laugh.
He’s okay, and Dean can breathe again too.

“Thanks, Ripley,” Sam jokes back, punchy, and that’s when Dean remembers that he’s still a little
drunk. Not to mention woozy from getting whatever that was sucked out of him.

Dean focuses his attention on wriggling out of the rest of his duct-tape, easier now that there’s no
ticking clock to race against, and then he trods over to yank the knife out of the back of Abby’s
skull. It sticks a little bit, lodged in bone like that, and he has to tug fairly hard to get it free. Her
head drops back into the water with another sickening splash and Dean steps over the corpse so
that he can cut Sam out too.

“She was kinda hot, huh?” Sam idly mentions, and Dean has to take a pause from slicing his
brother free to pin him with a look like he’s lost his mind. “Sigourney Weaver, I mean,” Sam
clarifies emphatically. “Not…her.”

Dean lets out a quiet chuckle himself at the misunderstanding. “Eh,” he says playfully, “better in
Ghostbusters.”

Sam laughs again. And it’s the most beautiful fucking thing Dean’s ever heard. “Hey, dude?” his
brother asks after another lopsided moment.

Dean hums distractedly, mostly still focused on his work.

“What the fuck was that thing?”

He lets out a drained sigh. “Sammy,” he answers honestly, “I have no freaking idea.”

One last slice through the tape gets Sam tumbling boneless into his arms and Dean’s hugging him
back before he even realizes he’s doing it. They both slump down together, backs propped up
against the base of Sam’s tree, and Dean’s got some pretty literal swamp ass going on, considering
how they’re currently sitting in like three inches of water, but Sam’s here and they’re both alive
and nothing else seems to matter as much as that. Not when he’s this tired. Because Dean’s not
sure what it is, but something about holding Sam like this soothes something deep within his soul.
No excuses this time. No ‘my back is cramping up’ or ‘we have to sell being a couple to these
annoying people’. It’s just him and his little brother, Sam wrapped up safe in his arms for as long
as he wants to stay there. But it’s okay because nobody’s watching. It feels more real somehow,
with them alone like this. Dean feels more real.

He buries his nose in Sam’s hair and unabashedly breathes him in.

They sit there exhaustedly clinging to each other for a long time before either of them speaks up
again. Dean almost wishes he could just go to sleep right here, swamp be damned, with Sam
curled up against him the way he’s supposed to be. A deep, well-buried part of him is actively
dreading going back to how it was before. Cold, separate beds. An entire motel room spanning
between them. Just the sound of his brother’s breathing to get him through the night.

Sam wriggles against his front a little, pulling him out of his darker thoughts as he readjusts to a
more comfortable position. “Well,” he says into the crook of Dean’s shoulder. “I guess our
monster wasn’t that Donald guy.”
Dean lets out a groan at the reminder. “Could have fooled me with the way that fucker high-tailed
it outta here,” he grumbles, retroactively annoyed with the whole damn situation. Even if it’s
basically over now.

Sam presses even closer into the huddle of Dean’s embrace—and he’s probably freezing, Dean
belatedly realizes. He’s still in just that flimsy t-shirt. So Dean wraps him up a little tighter. Tries to
block the worst of the cold water with his own body. “We weren’t super subtle about our
questioning,” Sam reminds him. “He probably realized we liked him as a suspect for the
disappearances.”

“And he took off before he could get caught up in a court case,” Dean sighs in realization. “Man,
that just makes him look guilty. What a moron.”

“He wasn’t exactly the sharpest guy, Dean.” Sam rubs his head against his chest like he’s
scratching at an itch, then settles again. “Hey, Dee?” he mumbles. Dean just hums in response,
even if his insides are lighting up pretty damn warm at the rare nickname. “About our fight
earlier…” Sam trails off, awkward and guilty, like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to say the actual
words again.

But Dean’s already had his half of this conversation too. “I know, Sammy,” he says generously.
“Me too.”

Sam doesn’t let them off the hook that easy though. “I did want you to come with me, Dean,” he
says. And it’s honest and sweet, and Dean lets go of just a tiny bit of his anger.

“Yeah, well,” he says in return, “I wanted you to stay.” And it’s honest and sweet, and Dean
holds onto just a tiny bit of his anger.

But it’s good enough for Sam, apparently, given the way he lets out a contented sigh and closes
his eyes. They’re too damn old to be cuddled up like this, but Dean doesn’t think he could let go if
he tried.

He looks over at the corpse lifelessly staring back at them and casually wonders how the fuck
they’re going to get rid of it in their usual way. Because Dean has no idea how they’re gonna find
wood dry enough to burn in a bayou. Although he figures, worst comes to worst, maybe they can
just drench everything in lighter fluid and then shoot a couple flares at the pyre until it catches.
They’ve done more with less.

And then Dean remembers how Sam had dropped his gun in the swamp too. God, that thing’s
gonna be a bitch to fucking clean.

Sam wriggles against him again, more urgently this time, and Dean frowns as he glances down at
the top of his brother’s head. “Hey, you okay?” he asks softly.

“No,” Sam groans pitifully. “I think I’m gonna go throw up.”

And Dean can’t stem the tide of his own laughter as he finally opens up his arms to let Sam crawl
away into the foliage.
 Epilogue

“So get this,” Sam says, the faint reflection of the computer screen deepening the lines of
exhaustion around his eyes. To be fair, anyone would look a little haggard after the kind of night
his brother had. The cloudy gray morning light streaming in through the windows sure isn’t
helping. “It’s called a crocotta.”

Dean makes an amused sound as he continues to pack up their room around him. “Sounds like a
lawn game,” he jokes.

“They’re scavengers.” Sam lets out a jaw-creaking yawn and then scrubs his hands over his face,
probably trying to work some circulation back in. “They mimic the voices of loved ones,” he says,
“to draw their unsuspecting prey into the shadows where they can then consume their—” He
pauses as he tilts his head at the screen, “…soul, maybe? I dunno, I think the best translation might
be ‘life force’. But that’s not even the best part,” he adds with a sense of dry amusement.
“Crocottas prefer to live in filth.”

Of course they do—Dean thinks in equally weary sarcasm. “Guess that explains the boiler room.”

Sam lets out a quiet snort at his words and returns his attention to the plain cake donut he’s been
nibbling on the last few minutes. It’s probably the only thing that he can keep down after his little
binge last night.

Dean had slipped down to the lobby a few hours ago. Figuring on providing his own paltry
version of room service, given that Sam’s head probably feels like pounded cement right about
now. The box of donuts was the only breakfast option that was easily portable, and since it was
early enough that there was no one else around, Dean just went ahead and grabbed the whole
thing.

He watches his brother snake his tongue out and lick the crumbs off his lips, flash of pale, wet
pink against soft flesh, and clenches his fist a little tighter around the dirty shirt in his hand. Abby
didn’t know what she was talking about. She’d just somehow picked up on whatever creepy
aphrodisiac was still in his system and jumped to stupid conclusions. And yet…for a split second,
Dean can’t help thinking about swiping his own tongue over Sam’s lips, pulling the taste of sweet
pastry right into his mouth. Pulling the taste of his brother right into his mouth. Again. He could
make Sammy feel better. Make him forget everything bad that’s ever happened to him, just like
they’d done in that boiler room. Filling up all the empty spaces until there was no room for
anything but the smell and taste and feel of them together. In some fucked-up way, he thinks he
might be addicted to it already. Unconventional—and a little bit sick—he’ll admit, but it makes
sense. It’s just one more trick in his arsenal to take care of Sam. One he can’t use though, not if he
doesn’t want a fist through his face. He’ll have to watch that. Dean shakes his head and finally
flings his t-shirt back in his bag. They’ll need to hit a Laundromat soon.

“Hey, uh, Sammy?”

Sam makes a sound to show he’s listening, but it comes off more pained than anything else. Kid’s
gonna be useless until tomorrow.

Dean stalls for as long as he can by finishing up the packing and then just stands there for a bit
with his hands dangling awkwardly at his sides. He’s about to ask a dangerous fucking question.
He shouldn’t. He should just pin the win up on the board and never mention it again…but he has
to know. “What did it sound like to you? The, um, crocotta.”
His brother tilts his head and frowns at the dumb question. “You.”

Dean lets out a terse breath at the obvious answer. “No, dipshit,” he says with almost no bite at all,
“I mean what did she say?”

Sam unexpectedly chokes on his breakfast. His hand lashes out to latch against the edge of the
table as he fights through a ragged coughing fit, and Dean very patiently waits until he can breathe
again. “Um,” he says weakly, his eyes flicking around the room as they settle anywhere and
everywhere that isn’t Dean’s face. “You kept asking me to come to you. I—I just thought you
were in trouble, y’know? Calling out for me.” He clears his throat and sheepishly sweeps the
remaining crumbs on the table into a neat little pile. “What about you?”

Dean doesn’t exactly know what he was hoping for. Why he feels deflated all of a sudden. What
Sam just told him was the best possible answer he could have given. Sensible, simple, and easy to
move past. But some part of him is still disappointed. “Yeah,” he lies. He doesn’t meet his
brother’s questioning stare. “Same thing. ‘Come to me’ and stuff. Figured you were stuck in
quicksand or something and needed me to yank your dumb ass out of the swamp.”

Sam rolls his eyes—or attempts to before the motion causes him to wince—and whatever moment
they almost had is over.

Dean swings his full duffel onto the bed, and then he contemplates flinging Sam’s backpack
square at his chest for a moment before thinking twice and simply dropping it onto the tabletop
with a worrisome creak of the wood. The petty gratification of a cheap shot like that wouldn’t be
worth the flare of guilt at his brother’s hard-done reaction. No big deal. Dean can be nice every
once in a while. Ask anyone. And if a little tender care will get Sam to smile at him in soft thanks,
then it’s pretty much worth it. And if that same soft smile will do something funny to Dean’s
insides—well, that’s no one’s business but his own.

Plus, he was nice all last night too, letting Sam groan and whimper in the bushes while he handled
all the messy cleanup. It took three separate trips to the car and back for enough lighter fluid to get
the job done. Dean hadn’t even finished until the faint blue light of false dawn had started
creeping over the treetops. Well, mostly finished anyway. The last little bits of Abby that hadn’t
burned all the way he’d tossed in the water—either to sink down to the marshy bottom or be eaten
by local wildlife. Just like she must have done with her victims. What goes around…and all that.

“Hey, Dean?” Sam asks tentatively. He pulls in a breath like he’s gonna say more, but the moment
just hangs silent in the air until he snaps the laptop shut instead. Then he dumps the rest of his half-
eaten donut back in the box and pushes out of his chair, wiping the residual crumbs off on his
jeans. All large, fumbling palms and nervous energy.

“Yeah, Sam,” Dean prompts, tired of waiting for the other shoe. “What?”

Sam curls and uncurls his hands at his sides, and Dean’s about ready to wrap his own around
them to still the annoying movement when his brother finally gets on with it. “Last night,” he
reminds him hesitantly, “about what Abby was saying—”

Jesus. More of this because Sam can’t ever just let things lie. “She said a lot of shit, man,” Dean
lets out on a weary sigh. “You can’t pay any attention to that crap. She just said whatever she
thought we’d wanna hear.”

Sam pins him with one of his sad puppy-dog stares for a second, like he’s thinking about
disagreeing with him, then gives in. “Yeah,” he says quietly in return, glancing down at his own
fingertips lingering over the edge of the table. “You’re probably right.”
Only, Dean can’t leave it like that when his brother is so obviously upset over things. It’s not in
him. “Look,” he says, softer, “everything just got all weird ‘cause of this last week, right?” Sam
doesn’t look bolstered by his words though, if anything he just looks more hangdog, so Dean
plows ahead. “You and me, we’re good, Sammy,” he reassures him. “We’ve been put through the
fucking wringer the last five days, but we’re good. We had to deal with essentially living through
a cheesy chick flick, fighting a jacked-up monster neither of us has ever even seen before, all
while dodging an entire hotel’s worth of nosy civilians. Of course you’re gonna feel a little off-
kilter after that.” Dean tugs at the collar around his neck and pretends he isn’t talking to himself
just as much as his brother. “And that’s not even counting all the aphrodisiac shit.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Sam asks in amused disbelief. And he’s so quickly launched out of his poor
spirits and into mocking condescension that Dean almost has to blink spots out of his eyes. “What
‘aphrodisiac shit’?”

Dean hesitates at the blunt reaction, but sticks to his guns all the same. “You know,” he says
insistently, “all the Spanish fly shit they’ve been pumping in through the vents.” Though as he
says it, his rock-solid conviction—the lone argument that’s been getting him through these last few
days—sounds a little pathetic even to his own ears.

Sam just stares at him like he’s insane. “What are you talking about?” he asks obnoxiously. And
he looks all bratty and arrogant while he does it too—arms judgingly akimbo, just his forefingers
and thumbs wrapped around the wing of his hips. Mr. High and Mighty, even with John Bonham
playing a drum solo in his skull. “This place is a four star resort.”

“Yeah,” Dean scoffs, “other than the secret fuck drugs they’ve been dosing everyone with.
Anything for a bottom line, right?”

His brother doesn’t spare him an ounce of understanding. He doesn’t even take a moment to
breathe before cracking up right in his face. Like an asshole. “They haven’t been pumping
anything into the hotel, you lunatic,” Sam laughs, his eyes glittering with amusement under the
soft fall of his bangs. Dean might even think the expression looked good on him if he wasn’t so
busy being resentful right now.

“Yeah, whatever, Sam,” he mutters sullenly, flipping through his wallet to pull out a few extra
bills for the maids.

But Sam just keeps pushing like he can’t let it go. “You do know that Spanish fly doesn’t actually
work that way, right?” he says. “It’s a myth. Cantharidin doesn’t do anything other than irritate the
urinary tract.”

“What, really?”

“Yes, really,” his brother chuckles to himself. “Oh my God, Dean.”

Dean bites back on any harsh retorts and forcefully jams his wallet back in his jeans. “Would you
just put the computer away?” he orders curtly, artlessly trying to change the subject. “You could at
least try to pull your own weight here.” Hangover be fucking damned, he’s done traveling the
sympathy route. He swipes up both their room keys and whatever else he’ll need to finish
checking them out down at the front desk. Abby sure as hell won’t be there this morning. Dean’s
probably gonna have to deal with Snooty McSnooterson. “I’ll meet you at the car,” he bites out
over his shoulder, making a beeline for the hallway. Though Sam must be able to tell that he’s
more embarrassed than pissed because the mocking laughter never really trails off.

Dean closes the door right on his brother’s stupid face.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It’s still gray outside when Dean finishes up and passes through the hotel doors, but muggy rather
than cold, and the ground is slick with dark mud. Beau and Vivian are already packing up their
car a few paces away, although given the obnoxious amount of suitcases they keep trying to tetris
into the trunk, they’ll be here for a while yet. Dean should probably go and help, but he’d
showered all the suburbia off of him last night and he’s not super keen on rolling around in it some
more. Plus, Estelle comes swanning out into the front parking lot only a moment after that,
gracefully directing an army of bellhops this way and that as they struggle under her heavy
luggage—which is goddamn funny—and Sam strides out with their bags crisscrossed over his
shoulders a few minutes later. Though he does wince a little at the light outside, even with the sun
muted and foggy behind the haze of clouds.

Dean’s heading for his brother when he feels an arresting tap on his shoulder. It’s strong enough
to halt him in his tracks and he spins around to catch Kat, nervous and determined, at his shoulder.

“Hey, Dean?” she says apprehensively, and it’s obvious that this is gonna be more than just a
quick ‘see you later’. He catches Sam’s eye, ignores the look of tired exasperation, and finally gets
a capitulating nod. His brother looks just as sour about it as he’s looked about anything to do with
Kat these last few days, but Dean tosses the keys at him, regardless. And pretends he doesn’t feel
a tiny sting of guilt at leaving Sam out to dry. This isn’t even remotely the first time he’s blown his
brother off for a girl. He shouldn’t be feeling anything at all.

“What’s up?” Dean finally directs at Kat, slipping his hands into his pockets and throwing on a
smile.

She sweeps her hair out of her face, shoring herself up for whatever she’s about to say, and he
waits patiently until she’s ready. “Look,” she starts quietly, “I know this is all kinds of
inappropriate and you can totally tell me to fuck off if I’m overstepping here, but…” Kat holds her
breath for a second before letting it out on a hard sigh, and Dean has to admit he’s curious. “Josh
and I aren’t exactly a thing anymore. I don’t think.” She hesitates for a moment, then shakes her
head fiercely. “No, I know. We’re not. And I just—” Kat finally glances up to meet his gaze, her
deep blue eyes vivid against the fog. “I really felt a connection between us this last week,” she
says honestly, “and I’m pretty sure you felt it too. It’s like you said, right? You’re supposed to go
after whatever you think will make you happy? So…here’s my number. If you want it.” She pulls
a folded slip of paper out of her pocket, worn and creased, like she’s been thumbing at it for hours,
and holds it out with a brave smile.

But Dean finds himself uncharacteristically hesitant—stuck, as he stares at the enticing offer in her
outstretched hand. This is great. It’s exactly what he wanted. It’s…great. An ego-boost for sure.
He hadn’t even really been trying that hard and he managed to pull a solid nine onto his hook.
Ten, maybe, if she’s as eager in the sack as she seems. And there’s no reason for him to keep up
the big gay charade now that their monster is resting in peace at the bottom of the bayou. He can
go back to bedding every willing girl in a three-thousand mile radius and Sam can go back to
rolling his eyes and snarking at him behind his back, which is apparently what makes him happy.
But…

He twists around to glance over at his brother, wrangling their bags into the trunk while trying to
keep everything out of the mud and getting his own feet absolutely coated for his trouble, and for
the goddamn life of him can’t seem to pull the trigger on this one. For whatever reason.
“Sorry, Kat,” Dean says eventually, gently closing her fingers over the scrap of paper. “I’ve got a
good one. I ain’t about to fuck that up.”

Kat doesn’t seem too hurt by his decision though. Or surprised. She simply nods in understanding,
a rueful smile tugging at her lips as she pockets her number again. “Sam’s really lucky, y’know,”
she says, and it sounds like she means it.

“Nah,” Dean breathes out, watching his brother finally notice the mud soaking in through his
flimsy canvas shoes and then throw his head back in a frustrated groan. Sam tosses a few
surreptitious glances over his shoulder and discreetly tries to scrape some of the muck off onto
Baby’s clean fender—which he’s gonna get a goddamn earful about later—but for now all it does
is make Dean smile like a sap. “I’m the lucky one,” he says. And he thinks he sounds like he
means it too.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There’s an obnoxious alternative love song coming out of his car radio. Coming out of his car
radio. His beautiful Baby’s car radio which is only supposed to be used for classics so that Sam’s
stupid taste in music doesn’t gunk up her speakers. It’s exactly the kind of blasphemy that proves
there isn’t a loving God, because Dean knows if he did exist, he’d put a stop to this shit real damn
quick. It quickly gets worse though. The pop-y lead singer starts whining over the plucky guitar,
begging some chick named Delilah not to forget him while she’s at school. Sam is actually
bopping along. It makes Dean want to bash his head against the dash, and not just because his
stupid ‘driver picks the music’ rule has backfired on him so spectacularly.

“Did he just say that his voice is his disguise?” Dean asks flatly.

Sam barely even spares him a glance, eyes immediately back on the road like a good little driver.
“It’s just a song.”

“Yeah, but did decent lyrics die out in the 70s or something?” Dean lets out a long, put-upon
groan, silently praying that Sam will give in if he’s annoying enough. “Seriously, man. I can’t
believe you’re making me listen to this.”

His brother doesn’t show even an hint of caving, his expression firm and resolute. And goddamn
smug. “I’m sorry, what did you just say, shotgun?” he asks, cupping a facetious hand around his
ear. “’Cause I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to be shutting your piehole.”

“It’s ‘cakehole’,” Dean corrects him childishly, crossing his arms over his chest and entrenching
himself even deeper into his seat. Sam’s seat. The passenger seat. “Least you could do is get it
right,” he mutters.

“Since when do you eat cake?”

“It’s a saying, Sam.” Dean knows he’s losing this argument, so he kicks his legs out into the
footwell and sulks a little more. “And why am I even letting you drive anyway?”

A dimple pops up in the middle of Sam’s right cheek, like he’s biting at the inside of it. His voice
is affectionate when he answers him though. Thankful, even. “Because you spent all last night and
this morning chopping up and burning pieces of monster while I slept off my hangover?” he
suggests. The soft curve of his lips underlines his gratitude.
And how the hell is Dean supposed to stay upset after a thing like that? He tilts his head against
the seatback and lowers his eyelids a little in satisfaction, just watching Sam drive. “How’s that
going for you, by the way?” he teases warmly.

Sam tosses him a wry glance back. “It’s…about as slept off as it’s gonna get.”

Dean huffs out a chuckle. It’s actually impressive that his weak-sauce brother is even conscious
after his bender last night. Not to mention the literal soul-sucking monster. And their little
screaming match. Dean takes an uncomfortable moment to ponder how easily they tend to pave
things over and slip back into their comfortable roles after their blow-out fights. Then he wonders
if maybe that ain’t exactly a good thing. Addressing issues without ever actually fixing things has
served him pretty faithfully his whole life though. So it kinda seems like a waste to change it up
now. “You want my sunglasses?” he offers instead.

“Yeah,” Sam breathes instantly. Like maybe he was just waiting for him to bring it up.

A smile quirks across Dean’s own lips at his brother’s ridiculous politeness—god only knows
where he picked it up from—and he scrabbles around in the glove box for a moment before
handing the dark glasses over. He lets Sam’s relieved sigh wash over him as he closes the latch
again, fondly running his thumbnail over the little, silver ‘Impala’ plaque set into the dash before
dropping his hand back into his lap.

After a little while, Sam says, “Figured we’d drive for a couple more hours before stopping for
lunch. Try and hit Baton Rouge by noon.” He stretches a couple kinks out of his shoulders and
then settles back into his seat. “You want a burger?”

“’Course I want a burger,” Dean answers playfully. “Don’t ask dumb questions.”

Sam doesn’t even try for a comeback, but he looks peaceful as he can get as he turns his eyes back
to the road.

Dean keeps his eyes on him though, tracing the well-known roadmap of Sam’s outline easy as
breathing. He looks stark against the gray light from the windows. Solid and real. He idly
catalogues the absurd swoop of his brother’s nose in profile. The slight cleft carving the point of
his chin in two. The sheer spread of his hand on the wheel—long, slender fingers angling up to
the rougher, broader ridge of his knuckles. The heel of his palm hugging the perforated leather,
wide and rounded-square. The tapering elegance of his wrist.

Here’s the thing. Dean has always been hyper-aware of his brother in a disconcertingly physical
sense. It probably started as a safety issue, he guesses absently, back when he was no more than
knee-high to Dad and Sam was about the same to him. ‘Take care of Sammy’ may have been the
official standing order for most of his life, but he never actually needed to hear the words out loud.
Something permanent had been seared into him that night—the night of the fire. Just as branding
and indelible as the blistering flames licking claws of black soot into the walls of their former
home. Or maybe it was before that, something sunk deep into the marrow of his bones, just
untested until that moment. But Dean doesn’t breathe right without Sam in touching distance.
Hell, he barely let the kid out of his sight growing up. And maybe keeping tabs on his brother’s
body to get a read on his condition gradually turned into something more specific over the years.
Checking to see if Sam was in one piece shifted into also appreciating the raw-boned beauty of his
frame or the dip of his lower back.

There was nothing ever inappropriate about it. It wasn’t looking. It was just aesthetics or
something. You’d have to drag it off of his tongue with him kicking and punching the whole time,
but Dean’s whole world could fit comfortably within the confines of Sam’s body. His whole
universe. There’s nothing wrong with keeping an eye on that. There’s nothing wrong with
 enjoying keeping an eye on that.

It’s just—something sick in his belly is reminding him that his secret ogling isn’t feeling too
aesthetic right about now. This past week either. If Dean’s being completely honest with himself,
maybe something had changed the minute he’d got a hand around the back of Sam’s neck in a
Palo Alto apartment, one palm cradling his brother’s wrist to his own chest, as he’d swung him
flat-backed onto the floor between his thighs. Or maybe it wasn’t until Sam had slammed a heel
into the small of his back and so effortlessly flipped him in return, his solid weight pressing their
bodies against each other for the first time in years.

Just the fading memory of that night sends a warm pulse spreading in Dean’s groin, easy and
unhurried. It’s familiar, in more than one way, and Dean spends the last bit of mental energy he
has trying to shove it away. Trying to stamp out the low-level buzz of arousal and contentment
that seems to radiate between him and his brother like an aura, growing stronger the closer they
get, growing hotter the more it ping-pongs between them. But denying it doesn’t work. It never
fucking works. Not really. Not permanently.

Fucking goddamn aphrodisiac shit—is the first thought that pops into his head in response, bitter
and automatic. But then he remembers. Sam laughing at him that morning in their fancy hotel
room. Dimples carving deep at the edges of his smile as his eyes had glittered. Spanish Fly isn’t
real. It doesn’t work like that, he’d said. But if there wasn’t any, if there hadn’t been any this
whole week then that would mean…

No—Dean thinks. No. Never. Impossible. But the words sound exhausted, weak and paper-thin,
even in his own mind. He can’t keep fighting his own demons anymore. He’s too tired from this
never ending, impossible game of whack-a-mole. Whack-a-hydra more like. Because every time
he manages to smother one feeling down, to deny each burning urge, to keep blindly pretending
that nothing’s wrong with him and that he and Sam are normal and that everything will go back
the way it was if he just holds out a little longer…three more pop up in its place. And they’re
stronger. Hotter. Bitingly, viciously inescapable. So Dean finally stops fighting. Dean watches his
brother drive, one hand securely on the wheel and his pretty face tipped toward the silver horizon.
Dean watches Sam like he has every day of his life and lets that smoldering ember burn in his
gaze and his heart and his cock. It doesn’t have to mean anything more than that.

Impossible—his brain whispers again, but the voice is so much quieter now.

So quiet that Dean doesn’t think he can even hear it at all.

End Notes

Title taken from The Velvet Underground's "I Heard Her Call My Name"
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