Current mood:	cheerful
Current music:	Lovestain - José González
Entry tags:	fic, fic: sam/dean, fic: supernatural

Supernatural: Sharing Different Heartbeats (Sam/Dean, R)
Shit. This is the longest thing I've ever written for SPN. I'm so proud. \0/ And heh, Wednesday night? Probably not the best time I could be posting this. But, I really want to, since I don't know if I'll be around much this week.

The original title for this was something far different, but uponplains thought it was too blunt, and I agreed. She suggested taking something from "Heartbeats" by José González (originally by The Knife) -- lyrics and song download -- because she was listening to that song while doing the beta and realized that it was perfect for the fic. And it totally is.


Sharing Different Heartbeats
After that, sleep became more than just stealing the blankets, more than tugging the pillow over his ears to deafen the sounds of Sam's snores and grunts, more than rubbing Sam's drool off his shoulder in the morning. It became a hand on his chest, a tug in his belly that shouldn't be there, a knee bumping into the back of his own. It was the lights off, Sam's hands, the cars outside, Sam's mouth, the TV next door. It was yes and please and don't stop; it was pillows with wet bite marks and hips sore from tight, gun- and knife-callused grips.

Sam/Dean. R (language, mild drug use, sex, incest). ~10,600 words.


Gotta thank smidgy06 for being the first person to read this over, point out my bubble issues, and boost my ego. Also, I had two MAGNIFICENT betas. lissa_bear saw this through multiple drafts, suggested lines and plot ideas, and was generally fantastic with putting up with me this week. uponplains took pity on me when I was angsting over how I was unsure about this fic and did a last read-through. Any remaining mistakes are all mine.

Also – holy CRAP, I know long author notes suck big fat ass – but this is dedicated to the lovely Ash (notthequiettype). She's a great writer and an all around AMAZING person. ♥ Plus, she bought me userpics some time ago, and I totally owe her. She deserves porn, but, well. Maybe another time.

Sharing Different Heartbeats

They had been driving for two straight days, nothing but Dean's foot on the gas and crumpled Burger King wrappers on the seat between them. Sam chose a new destination every hour, just to make it harder for whoever was tracking them that month. There was an aching twinge in Dean's lower back and when he shifted his weight, Sam looked at him from under his bangs and pursed his lips, like some freaking librarian.

"Christ, Sam, go to sleep," Dean told him.

"Lemme drive."

"I'm fine."

But he wasn't, and Sam knew it and he knew it and nobody was going to say anything.

It had been getting harder to work lately. The FBI had their lives tucked away in a file and sometimes, Dean's face was in gas stations next to whatever asshole was up for drug charges that week. Sam insisted on less credit cards, more real money, but there were only so many times that they could hustle pool or work odd jobs, and when Dean suggested Vegas, Sam sulked for the rest of the day.

Dean pushed his knuckles into his sore thigh and offered, "Just a little bit longer, okay?"

There was a huff and a quick nod, and then Sam unfolded the map across his knees and peered at the dots and lines before he picked a point blindly. He said, "Middleton, Idaho," and slumped down in the seat, tipping his head against the window.

*   *   *

The Impala was starting to feel cramped and Dean kept looking over at Sam, wondering why his baby brother had to be so damn big and take up so much space, and he couldn't breathe, not with the running and no job to look forward to. He was craving a hunt, his skin itching for it, and he missed the days when he and Sam could just roll in and out of towns without looking over their shoulders.

"I think we should settle down," Sam announced one morning over breakfast. They were in this little diner that was tucked between the laundromat and a comic book store, eating pancakes soaked with syrup and drinking fairly awful coffee.

"I told you that I'm not ready for kids," Dean told him over the top of the newspaper obits.

"Dean. I'm talking about going to a small city and getting jobs. We need money. Only for a month."

"I think that paying exorcism job Bobby told us about'd better," Dean countered. He took a gulp of coffee and winced as it slid down, hot and sour.

"Oh, you mean the one in," Sam dropped his voice, "St. Louis?"

Dean shut the newspaper. Nothing here. Zip, zilch, nil, nada. Time to move on. "C'mon. Let's see if the library has wireless."

It did, and while Dean read old issues of People and Us Weekly, Sam found a string of car crashes at a particular intersection in Alliance, Nebraska. Dean peered over his brother's shoulder as Sam listed the important facts, hand poised over the keyboard. A high school girl, bag slung over her shoulder, walked past them and Sam hid the window, but there were headphones in her ears and she didn't even glance in their direction. Dean watched Sam's shoulders slump with relief.

"Sounds good," said Dean, clapping his palm on Sam's back. "Let's go."

*   *   *

After the car crash case (which turned out to be caused by the spirit of an eight-year-old girl who had been left to die by her mother after a bad collision, and wow, Dean hated dealing with the spirits of kids, because they were always way more nasty than adults), Sam's phone buzzed with a call from Ellen. She pointed them towards a chupacabra sighting in New Mexico.

Sam was saying thanks when Dean passed a minivan, pedal to the floor, but he stopped abruptly and scratched the back of his neck. "No," he said, through his teeth. "No, we haven't heard from Jo."

They hadn't seen Jo since the possession incident. Dean had called her after they left Bobby's and thanked her for the bullet removal, apologized for what she had gone through with Sam, and then told her to call her mother. She hadn't called back. Dean wasn't surprised.

"Bye," said Sam curtly and snapped the phone shut before tossing it onto the dashboard. Dean glared at him and Sam rolled his eyes, but he did pick up his phone. "Wanna go?"

"Yeah."

*   *   *

They decided to stick around in New Mexico for a couple days once the chupacabra was dead. Dean had a gash from the tip of his shoulder down to his elbow, and though it wasn't deep enough for stitches, it still hurt like a bitch, so it didn't take much of Sam's prodding to convince him to rest.

On the first day, they did nothing but lie in bed. Sam was due for about six years of sleep and Dean didn't mind watching soap operas on mute while his brother was in the other bed, arms wrapped around a pillow, knees to his chest. He napped on and off, awakening every few hours in a sleepy daze to piss or buy a bag of Doritos. Sam was out for most of the day and woke up with a, "Dude, I'm fucking starving," so Dean ordered pizza. They watched a Law and Order marathon until Sam was snoring again.

By the third day, "resting" became synonymous with "really fucking annoying" and Sam agreed. They walked through the town, guzzling Coke while hot sun beat down on their necks. It was a tourist town, so Sam dragged Dean into a gift shop and shoved ridiculous hats on his head, grin getting wider at every one. Dean bought him a cactus figurine.

It wasn't the Grand Canyon and the demon was still out there, but for now, he was calm.

*   *   *

In March, they didn't have much money on them. Their spare cash was barely enough for a double motel room and breakfast in the morning, and even though they had a new credit card, Sam shook his head and said, "No, no. Too many close calls. We're going with paper money for the next month."

Dean grumbled, but Sam was still stubborn as hell and eventually, Dean had to give in and get a single bed.

That wasn't a problem, since they'd shared a bed when Sam was Sammy, a toddler with floppy hair and sticky fingers. They'd shared a bed when Dean was old enough for an awkward, no eye contact conversation with Dad, and when Dean didn't show up for his twelfth-grade midterms because there was a gang of redcaps killing kids in the state next door and he never went back. Dean considered a bed to be nothing but something soft to sleep on, better than the floor because of the pillow and the sheets. When they were kids, they'd shared because it saved money, because Dad could buy more guns and more information and pay the rent.

He didn't think it was strange, just like he didn't think their job was weird, but like with hunting, he knew not to talk about it. Sam made the mistake of mentioning it at school when he was eleven. He suffered through a year and a half of ridicule, because it was just bad luck that Dad decided it was time to settle down for a bit and gather some cash. Some girls thought it was cute, but that went right over Sam's head and traveled to the high school, where Dean was fortunate enough to reap the benefits of being poor and good-looking.

But when Sam had come back, when he'd left college and his hot girlfriend and his future, Dean said, "Two queens," like it was something he could offer as compensation for whatever had made Sam leave. Here's some normality, he said without words, and if Sam noticed, he didn't say anything.

No, sharing a bed was not an issue. The problem was, he didn't like the loss of his scams. There was easy money in credit cards, and having to live hand to mouth was not something he looked forward to. He'd done that enough when he was a kid.

They paid for one night, since there was a poltergeist and they'd be gone by tomorrow afternoon. The girl behind the counter got this little grin when she handed Dean the key, her eyes on Sam, who was just outside, leaning against the Impala. He tried to return it, but the smile came out tight and forced, so he just turned on his heel and told Sam to carry the bags.

"You better not kick me," Dean warned when they were in bed.

Sam dug his freakishly cold feet into Dean's calves. "You better not drool on me, dork."

*   *   *

The poltergeist was gone but the house was a mess. There was furniture turned over, sheets stripped off the beds, plates broken and smashed on the kitchen floor that was sticky with orange juice and milk. The Shaw family (Mom, Dad, teenage girl, young boy) was relieved to find their home intact but devastated at the sight of the inside, so Sam offered to help clean up.

When he handed Dean a broom, winking, Dean could almost hear Missouri.

Mrs. Shaw said, as she finished scrubbing drops of Sam's blood off the dining room table, "You boys should stay for dinner."

"Mom, there's nothing to cook," the girl pointed out. Amy? Arlene? Dean couldn't remember. "We'd have to order pizza or something."

"That's fine with us," said Sam, coming up behind Dean. He clapped one enormous palm on Dean's shoulder and continued, "We're used to gas station food."

"Angela, honey, go ask your father for the car keys," Mrs. Shaw said, and the girl disappeared.

By six, the house looked better. Furniture was back in place and there was no glass for the kid, Davey, to step on. It was weird to hang out with people after the evil was gone, Dean thought, especially since Angela spent most of dinner staring at him, but Mr. and Mrs. Shaw were nice folks and seemed to be on their way towards quiet denial over what had happened. Sam made small talk with them while Dean made faces at Davey, grinning when the kid laughed.

But they did have to leave eventually, so Dean scrawled their phone numbers and email addresses onto a piece of paper. On an afterthought, he added Bobby's and Ellen's.

"You call us or them if anything happens," Dean told Mr. Shaw, folding the paper into fourths. "Anything. You think somethin' is up, someone'll be here to check on you."

Mr. and Mrs. Shaw thanked them so many times that Dean started to feel awkward, so he fumbled for his car keys and let Sam do the goodbye. Once he reached the door, Sam by his side, there were quick footsteps behind them and then fingers hesitantly tapping his shoulder.

It was Angela. She said, "I, uh. I wanna give you something. Can you wait, like, a minute?"

"Sure," said Sam, looking amused. When Angela turned to sprint upstairs, Dean nudged his elbow into Sam's side and glared. "What? She's got a crush on you. It's cute."

Angela came downstairs a minute later. Her right hand was in a tight fist.

"Um, this is going to sound really lame, but I was into Egyptian stuff last year, and my boyfriend got me this necklace." She opened her fist and stepped closer. The necklace was a simple brown cord with a small gold figurine at the end that Dean couldn't quite see. "I saw yours, Dean, and that's Egyptian, right?"

When Dean nodded, she uncoiled the necklace and held it up. Dad's road trip lectures kicked in and Dean recognized the figure as a shen, a loop of rope. "Well, this is supposed to be for protection—I mean, that's what the Internet said—and I figure, hey, if this shit works, it wouldn't hurt."

Angela was gnawing on her bottom lip now. Dean felt the aw, shucks grin stretch across his face and he took the necklace, his fingers brushing across hers. She flushed a deep shade of pink.

"Thanks," Dean said. It wasn't the first time someone had wanted to give them a gift, and this one was kind of sweet. It was. He asked, "Think it'll fit me?" and lifted the necklace up, over his head. It was a little tighter than his amulet, but the shen fit nicely behind the horns.

"Awesome," said Angela, grinning.

*   *   *

There wasn't much work to be had nearby, so they bounced from town to town, Sam at the poker table and Dean with a pool stick, until their wallets got fatter.

In Charlottesville, Virginia, they played Texas Hold ‘Em in the corner of a bar with a horde of frat boys. They all had girlfriends and Dean winked at each and every one while Sam bought round after round. Mimi, this sweet little redhead, sat between Dean and her boyfriend, Chad, but spent most of the night with her palm on Dean's knee.

A new pitcher arrived. Dean refilled Chad's glass and said, "Dude, you've got a nice lookin' girl, you know that?"

Chad, glassy-eyed and focused on his cards, nodded and pressed a sloppy kiss to Mimi's neck. She winced and Dean showed her a wide grin, thinking about sliding his hand right up her smooth thigh, but Sam stared until Dean looked up. He mouthed, "You're gonna get yourself beat up," and nodded at Chad.

"You're no fun," Dean muttered, tossing another forty dollars onto the table.

They left for Kentucky with far more money than they came in with and a promise from Mimi to be friended on Facebook (whatever the hell that meant) and, if he didn't have that, on MySpace. Dean was starting to think he should spend more time online. They stopped at a motel, where Dean promptly passed out. There was a possible possession in Frankfort and he wanted to be well rested.

At some time in the night, a triangle of light appeared as the bathroom door opened and Dean grunted. He squeezed his eyes shut, cursing, because Sam knew that any bit of light woke him up quicker than when Dad had started popping balloons full of ice water over his head before Saturday training sessions. The light disappeared and footsteps started, hesitant and slight, but Dean was awake, now—awake and irritated as hell.

Sam was standing at the foot of the bed; he could tell. When he rolled over onto his back, Sam's knees hit the mattress and he was edging up, towards Dean, who grumbled, "What d'you want?"

He didn't reply, just kicked the blankets aside so he could slide underneath, and then he was stretched out next to Dean. Warm breath gusted over Dean's neck and he thought, fine. Sam could regress back to his childhood snuggling fixation. Whatever. As long as he got some sleep. Sam was way less bitchy when he had more than three hours of sleep and Dean wouldn't have to deal with whatever cloud of angst had been following Sam around since he was born.

In the morning, Dean woke up with the sheets tangled by his feet and his arm slung over Sam's belly, nose buried in the chaos Sam called his hair.

*   *   *

When Sam buried himself under the blankets of his own bed the next night, Dean looked over.

"What, no snuggling tonight?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows at the Sam-shaped lump.

The pillow that was thrown in his directions was definitely worth it.

*   *   *

It was on a Wednesday night three months later that things started to get weird.

They destroyed a water spirit and Dean felt like celebrating, since it was the first big hunt they'd had in awhile, but Sam had a purpling bruise on his lower back and didn't want to do much of anything. He sprawled out on his bed, holding the remote control between two fingers.

"Don't wait up," Dean told Sam, who was focusing intently on a Seinfeld rerun.

And then it was booze and music and women and he was loving it, taking shots with this girl, Betty, who palmed his dick through his jeans right there at the bar. He grinned at her, emptied his last shot down his throat, and escorted her to the bathroom.

After dropping Betty's phone number into the trash, Dean stumbled back to the motel and took ten minutes to unlace his boots and kick them towards his duffel. Jeans were next, with an unnecessarily complicated belt buckle, until he was down to a shirt and underwear. The streetlamps outside offered no light for the room and Dean had to move carefully to his bed, lifting his feet with drunk precision until his knees hit the mattress and he let himself fall forward.

Except he landed on Sam's bed, on Sam, who awoke with a startled snort and grabbed Dean's shoulders like he was going to flip him, but Dean rolled over and mumbled, "Sorry."

"Dean," Sam said. "What—"

"Go t'sleep."

Sam sighed, obnoxiously heavy, but he shut up and, after what could have been a few seconds or a couple of minutes, patted Dean's cheek lightly.

Dean breathed against the sheets and realized that his left arm must be somewhere on Sam, because it was rising and falling with what felt like breathing. He held his breath momentarily, trying to get his own breathing to match Sam's, and when he curled his fingers, his forearm flexed against Sam's belly and Dean thought he heard his brother gasp, just a little.

That made him snap his arm back to his side, but he was drunk, sloppy and slow, so his fingertips grazed the waistband of Sam's boxers and there was this abrupt rush, this thing that swelled Dean's mind and his dick. He waited, head buzzing with something he didn't know what to do with, and then Sam turned onto his side and put his palm on Dean's thigh, edging up in time with their matching heartbeats.

*   *   *

Dean woke up to sun stabbing through his eyelids and Sam snoring against the back of his neck. Abruptly, bile rose in his throat and he rolled out of bed, stumbled into the bathroom, and managed to get the toilet lid up before he threw up. His body convulsed and he had to sink to his knees, hugging the bowl.

His bladder was screaming for release, but Dean couldn't. He couldn't. Just thinking about his dick reminded him of Sam's fingers—Christ, they're long—and if he looked at his dick, he'd remember how Sam jerked him off, rough and quick, or how Sam's breath came out in quick bursts against Dean's forehead when Dean returned the favor.

He flushed the toilet and stood over the sink for a few seconds, sucking in deep breaths, before he splashed cold water on his face. Last night, he was pretty drunk. It wasn't all his fault. Not that he was blaming Sam—it wasn't his fault, either. It was nobody's fault. It was just one incident that Dean was never going to speak of, ever, and it—

"Dean?" Sam's voice was lazy with sleep. Dean grabbed hold of the sink and willed his stomach to calm down. "It's pretty early, dude."

Dean cleared his throat. "I'm hungover."

"'Kay."

Here was where he would say, "Sorry to be disturbing your beauty sleep, sweetheart," but Dean couldn't imagine saying something like that now. Fuck no.

He forced himself to piss and then went back to the bed, legs moving stiffly. Sam was curled up in a ball, eyes shut. He hadn't said anything about—that—so maybe he didn't want to talk about it, either, and Dean was totally fine with that.

He crawled under the sheets, staring at the ceiling. There was no way in hell he could go back to sleep now.

Sam rolled over, his chin nudging Dean's shoulder. Dean's breath caught in his throat, because Sam was staring and it was way too uncomfortable. For a horrible moment, he wondered if Sam was going to kiss him.

"Mornin'," said Dean. The words felt like gravel in his mouth, dirty and hot, and one of his hands curled into a fist.

Sam stared for another few seconds and then said, seriously, "Don't puke on me."

He shuffled to his side of the bed and Dean exhaled shakily into the back of his palm.

*   *   *

After that, sleep became more than just stealing the blankets, more than tugging the pillow over his ears to deafen the sounds of Sam's snores and grunts, more than rubbing Sam's drool off his shoulder in the morning. It became a hand on his chest, a tug in his belly that shouldn't be there, a knee bumping into the back of his own. It was the lights off, Sam's hands, the cars outside, Sam's mouth, the TV next door. It was yes and please and don't stop; it was pillows with wet bite marks and hips sore from tight, gun- and knife-callused grips.

The thing was, though, this complicated everything. And it was more than the gay thing or the brother thing or any of the other things that made Dean sick, because that was just one set of the problem.

Sam never said anything, which was pretty weird, considering that he would usually be happy to talk Dean through his morning shit if it meant discussing Emotions and their Issues. He didn't mention, didn't compliment or criticize. Nothing. Dean was starting to wonder if he was going crazy, especially since when Sam bought the motel room, he usually got two beds. He figured it was Sam's way of dealing, since if it was two beds or one, the lights were off and Sam was there.

There was a line here they were crossing, of course—hell, there were a couple hundred lines—and Dean felt that in his belly once the sun started to set. It was a twist and a tug, anticipation and panic all at once.

He hated it. He loved it.

It was really, really fucked up.

*   *   *

They killed a black dog. Dean ached everywhere; the damn thing cut up his leg pretty bad, and Sam had to almost carry him to the car. He let himself slump against Sam's chest, half-dragging his bad leg behind him, and when Sam called him an old man, Dean elbowed him in the ribs. Sam stitched up his leg in the Impala, while Dean grit his teeth and gripped the oh, shit handle with both hands.

In the motel, Dean fell onto the nearest bed without undressing and hugged his pillow. He just wanted to sleep. He wanted to sleep for maybe twenty hours.

The lights went off and Sam got into the other bed, murmuring, "Try not to rip your stitches, ‘kay? The needle's already kind of dull."

"Mmph," Dean said into the pillow and closed his eyes.

When he opened them, Sam was between his thighs, unzipping his jeans. "Sam," Dean tried. His voice cracked a little. "Sammy. What're you doin'." His jeans were tugged down another couple inches and then Sam bowed his head and oh, that was what he was doing, holy shit— "Naw, naw, don't do that—you don't have to…"

It had been only hands and frantic grinding, and while Dean liked a good blowjob, he couldn't get this from Sam. It was clear that's he'd never given one before and Dean wasn't going to—he couldn't—

Dean sat up and grabbed Sam's head, pushing him off. That produced the dewy eyes, which Sam only used for weekends off and shopping at grocery stores instead of gas stations. He sighed and fit his palm against his brother's cheek, thumbing the spot underneath Sam's eye. "This is more than—I mean, this is almost another step, uh, I guess—shit, you know what I'm tryin' to say, right? Sam, don't—"

One of Sam's hands inched up to his bare thigh and he started tracing. It took only a few seconds for Dean to realize that it was letters, so that must mean words—

Let me do this.

Dean tilted his head back, hitting the wall gently, and said, "Okay. Fine."

*   *   *

It was weird, driving to a job when he still had the faint taste of Sam's come in the back of his throat. It was weird in that awesome way where he got laid, but it was also Sam, and that thought still hit him like a punch to the gut.

Things were different, now. The air felt tighter, but it was a relaxing kind of tense. Dean couldn't really explain it. Their relationship was really weird and yet, he and Sam could still do their job. He liked that. He was glad they didn't have to talk about it; they understood each other that much.

It only happened at night, and that was an unspoken agreement, but that didn't mean Dean couldn't look when the sun was out. He kept glancing over at Sam, even though he tried not to—at the lines of his jaw, how he looked out from below his bangs, the way his shirt tightened when he laced his fingers together and stretched, hips lifting off the seat.

"Dean, buddy," said Sam. "You missed your exit."

"Lost myself in your pretty eyes," Dean sing-songed. He flicked up the volume before things could get awkward, but Sam just laughed and looked out the window. "I think we'll be there by tonight."

"We can stop, if you're tired."

There was all sorts of promise in those words and the back of Dean's neck prickled. He rubbed the skin, nails scratching at his hairline, and then glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. Last night, Sam had straddled Dean's hips and thrust into his hand, all while sucking and biting at the skin on Dean's neck. Huh. Dean thought there would be a hickey or two, but Sam must have been more gentle.

"I'm okay," said Dean, still touching his neck.

*   *   *

It was the standard haunting. They dug the grave together, but Dean got to drop the box of matches onto the stack of salted bones. This guy haunted movie theaters, popping up to hurt folks who yelled things at the screen. Dean thought it was kind of funny.

Some kids who probably came out here to smoke weed spotted them and started shouting about calling the cops, and they had to sprint to the Impala. Dean drove for a couple of hours, Sam's B.B. King tape drifting out of the stereo, until there was a motel and it was time to sleep.

"One bed again?" Sam asked, dropping his duffel onto the floor.

"You're the one who's always bitching at me about money," said Dean, tugging his shirt over his head. Clumps of graveyard dirt fell onto the carpet and he kicked them under the bed. "'Sides, I know how much you like to cuddle."

Sam huffed and flopped onto the bed as Dean got into the shower.

That night, Sam fucked him, fingers tight on his hips, and Dean was disappointed there was nothing to show for it in the morning.

*   *   *

Dean came up with a plan in the shower a couple weeks later.

He was going to go out there, and he was going to kiss Sam. On the cheek. Maybe on the mouth. Or somewhere in between. Something that wouldn't scare Sam away. He was going to do this, because this couldn't be one of the family's many dark spots. It was eating away at Dean, so deep he couldn't go an hour without thinking about what happened when the lights went out, and Sam had to be thinking the same, since he was always there at night. This was dangerous. It couldn't go on forever. It had to stop, or it had to change.

Dean sucked in a breath and opened the door, holding onto the towel by the knot at his hip. Sam was using the dresser as a desk, focusing intently on Yahoo's Odd News. He didn't look over.

"What're you doin'?" Dean asked. A drop of water slid off his earlobe and landed on Sam's shirt.

Do it do it do it do it do it do it.

Sam said, "Looking for a job," and started to turn around, and that was when Dean ducked down and kissed the side of his mouth.

It was ten in the morning, and he was kissing his little brother. This was very fucked up.

"Dean, what the fuck," was what came from Sam, and then he was standing and backing away, jaw tightening and head tilted.

This was even worse.

"Don't," Dean tried, holding up his free hand. "Don't freak."

"Why the hell not?" Sam's shoulders were hunched and he was fumbling with his hands, looking at the floor and the TV. "What's—"

"Look, this has been going on long enough," said Dean. He tightened his grip on the towel and started to step forward, but Sam retreated back into the wall. His brother had never looked so tiny. "I can't—I can't keep doin' this with you if you aren't gonna talk about it. And yeah, I know, I'm supposed to be the insensitive one here, but shit, Sammy. It freaks me the fuck out, okay?"

Sam eyed him carefully. "Christo."

"I'm not possessed!" Dean snapped. "Are you puttin' yourself in that much denial? You can't say it to my goddamn face?"

Dean's heart was pounding in his ears with every second that Sam didn't stop looking terrified, and oh shit. Sam looked really anxious now, and Dean definitely just fucked up here, because Sam was—he wasn't—

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sam said finally. He pushed his palms into his jeans, lifting his eyes to Dean's. "Dean. Dean, tell me what's happening."

Well, shit.

There was a whirring sound in Dean's ears, his tongue was heavy, his palms were wet, and there was this weird, tight feeling in his chest that rose to his throat, and oh, fuck, fuck, FUCK. Something was wrong, very wrong. Sam watched him cautiously, hands hovering in the air. Dean felt the sneer tug at his lips before he realized what he was doing and Sam's face broke, just broke, and Dean didn't understand. He was the one who screwed up (shit, he did) and Sam was looking like he just totaled the Impala? The fuck.

Or maybe it wasn't Dean; maybe Sam had been doing this in his sleep. Temporary possession or something. Demons liked to possess people while they were asleep—guards were down then and all that—and even though Sam had Bobby's charm around his neck, nothing could be said for sure with freaking demons. There were all sorts of nasty creatures who created sex-related havoc, and since Sam attracted evil like bees to honey, it was possible. But Dean couldn't say that. Pointing a finger and saying, "Your fault, not mine," was juvenile and stupid and wrong, because he was the one who fucked up here, not Sam. Even if it was Sam who was coming to Dean in the night without realizing it, Dean was one who let it go on and liked it.

Everything was wrong and Dean didn't know what was happening; he didn't know if it was a curse or something paranormal or if he had just gone crazy. He couldn't open his mouth to say so, but he did know that he had to get the hell out of here. Just for a few hours. He needed time to breathe and to think about exactly how he'd screwed everything up forever. There was a door behind him, and who cared if he was in a towel. It would probably attract more attention, which meant a higher possibility of a ride, and a better chance of getting the hell away from Sam before more shit happened. Dean turned but, suddenly, the door snapped shut before he could touch the doorknob.

Dean stopped, arm still outstretched. He couldn't turn around. Sam had just figured out how to turn on the Psychic Powers button in his massive brain and he was going to be sick.

"Holy shit," Sam breathed. "I—that was unintentional. Kind of. Um."

Sam couldn't be awkward. Dean was the one who fucked up, who obviously was going insane, because he had just spent the last couple of months thinking he and Sam were getting to know each other in a far deeper fashion that most—

His stomach rolled and Dean whipped around, sprinting in the other direction.

It was déjà vu all over again, Dean realized. The door was shut and breakfast was in the toilet, all preceded by him hooking up with his fucking brother. And if Sam didn't know what was going on—but Dean had a pretty good memory, and he damn sure remembered every time Sam had come into his bed. Shit.

There was a hesitant knock at the door and Dean groaned, thumping his head against the toilet bowl. He wanted to disappear; he wanted everything to be back to normal.

"Look, we can figure this out," said Sam, almost gently. "I mean—not your fault, right?" When he didn't answer, Sam pressed, "C'mon, Dean. Can I come in there?"

Dean had to remember how to breathe before he answered, "No."

"Please?"

His clothes were still on the floor. Dean dropped the towel and put them on, even though the shirt might not have been washed since two states ago. He bet Sam was going to bust down the door soon, and if he was going to do that, Dean wanted to be dressed. He would have preferred if Sam didn't come in here at all; actually, he'd be fine with pretending the whole thing never fucking happened, and then they could go back to work.

But Sam didn't kick the door down. Dean knew he was there, though, so he wasn't surprised to find Sam right there when he yanked the door open. The room's temperature shot up a couple thousand degrees as Dean pushed past Sam, towards his duffel.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Sam demanded. He grabbed Dean's bicep and held tightly, his fingers digging into the skin. "You're not leaving. Talk to me."

"Hell to the fucking no." Dean tried to tug his arm out of Sam's grip, but Sam was stronger and he wasn't letting go. Sam wasn't looking afraid anymore; there was almost a weird interest in his eyes, and not like that, but in this almost—like he thought— "Wait, you're seeing this as a case?"

"Yeah. Weird, unexplainable events. People acting differently. This sounds like our business, doesn't it?" Sam stared at him for a moment, then inhaled deeply through his nose. "When did this start happening?"

Dean yanked again and Sam let him go, so that he landed on one of the beds. Immediately, Dean scrubbed at his face with both palms and dropped his head. He couldn't look at Sam. The room was still way too hot and he felt like he was choking.

"When did this start happening?" Sam repeated. He was speaking calmly, but Dean could hear the panic behind it.

"It, uh." Dean dug his heels into the carpet. "July? Yeah. July. I think so."

Sam started to pace, rubbing his palms together. "Okay, that was the water spirit. But they aren't really connected to…"

Dean blocked out Sam's voice and flipped through the events of the past few months in his mind. None of them were connected in any way; Sam was in his bed, regardless of state or job. But oh, oh, he didn't talk, he never spoke, ever—"You never talked."

"Huh?"

"During the—stuff. You didn't talk." Dean fumbled for a way to make the next words sound civil, but he couldn't: "Maybe you were doing it in your sleep."

Sam stopped pacing and Dean could see his back stiffen. "So, this is my fault now?"

"Jesus Christ, that's not what I said," Dean snapped. "I—shit. I'm just trying to figure this out, as much as you—"

"And you should!" Sam turned around, hands in tight fists. The panic was gone, replaced by fury, and even though Dean had been expecting that, it still twisted something in his belly and he had to work hard to keep his eyes on Sam. "How could you even think—it doesn't—why would—"

Sam stopped, bowing his head, and Dean's stomach rolled again. Shit. What the hell happened?

"The necklace," Sam said suddenly, his head snapping up. "That's—that's the only thing we've been in contact with that could be cursed, or maybe it—maybe Angela did it?"

"Naw, too young," said Dean, shaking his head. He tugged Angela's necklace off and dropped it onto the bed, rubbing at the back of his neck. "The only living witches are forty, fifty years old, and there's not much of them left. ‘Sides, if she was a witch, she wouldn't be living as a teenage girl. Same goes for the boyfriend, who bought it for her."

"We should figure out where he bought it."

"Why? The chance of a cursed object being sold—"

"He could have gotten it at an auction."

"A kid? Don't think so."

Debating work was weirdly comfortable, even if they were discussing how Dean managed to think he and Sam were screwing around every night—and shit, that thought took all the ease out of this situation. Dean tugged on his earlobe. He needed something to do with his hands.

Sam stared and Dean grit his teeth. "Fine. I'll email her and ask."

"Okay."

Angela emailed him every once in awhile, usually with a question about the accuracy of Buffy. Last time, she told him that she put salt on her windowsill every night. It made his heart swell, actually, thinking about how there was a hunter growing up in Illinois. When he had proudly showed Sam the emails, Sam had given him a pointed look and said, "I think your biological clock is ticking."

The memory should make him chuckle, but instead, he felt nothing but a weird homesickness. He and Sam probably wouldn't be able to talk like that anymore. Because he fucked up. He fucked up bad.

Dean stood, a little unsteadily, and sat in Sam's abandoned seat. It took him a few seconds to remember his password, but he eventually got it and titled the subject EMERGENCY, then typed where did your boyfriend get the necklace?

Two minutes later, the computer chirped. Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Thank God for teenagers," Sam breathed.

Dean clicked on the new message.

he's here now, i asked him. he doesn't remember. why?

"Don't tell her."

"No shit," said Dean. Your gift made me want to fuck my brother was not something he could imagine saying, even in am email. He closed his eyes shut briefly at the thought and stood, gripping the back of the chair.

"Maybe we should call Bobby, ask—"

An awful bark of a laugh slipped out of Dean's throat before he could stop it. "Ask him if he knows which supernatural being causes incest?"

"Fuck you."

"No, fuck you."

There was a heavily awkward pause, and then Sam went on, "I meant, ask him if he knows of anything weird going on in that town. Or any of the places we've been through lately."

"There's—" Dean sucked in a breath. Too much. "I don't know. Look, Sam—somethin' happened and I fucked up. I get that. I fucked up pretty bad. But," and Dean stopped, bowing his head. He squeezed his palms together, gnawing on his lower lip. "Can we just forget about this?"

"Who the hell said you decide? You're the one who's not in his right mind. And what if it's not just you? What if someone else is—"

"Fucking their brother in their dreams?"

Sam's face twisted. Dean didn't know if it was anger or pity this time.

"I," Sam began. He put his hands on his hips and stared at the carpet. "I want to fix this, okay? Don't you?"

After a few seconds, Dean snapped, "Yeah. I do."

*   *   *

But they didn't.

Sam researched until he fell asleep on the keyboard and Dean called up every contact they had, asking about memory loss and sex-related incidents, but there was nothing. Nothing. Nausea became routine and they didn't look at each other, even when Dean threw his phone across the room and said, "Fuck."

"Yeah. I don't like not knowing."

Dean tried not to flinch at the unspoken whose fault it is on the end of that. "Me, too."

Sam shut his laptop.

"Are we, uh," Dean tried a few minutes later. "We gonna be okay?"

"Well." Sam kept his back turned, shoulders slumping. "Shit, Dean. I don't even know."

*   *   *

When Dean woke up, Sam was gone. There was a note on the bedside table.

I'm going to go on my own for a couple months. Don't freak out. I'll call if I have a vision or I find out something about the demon.

It wasn't that surprising, since Dean had been expecting Sam to hit the road since those terrifying seconds after the kiss. Still, something surged through Dean so quickly that he felt dizzy with it. He sat up and punched the pillow until he felt a little better.

Dean swung his legs over the edge of the bed and put his head between his knees, gripping the mattress tightly. This wasn't anger. It was relief.

*   *   *

Sam was gone barely two hours before Missouri called him. Dean greeted her with a, "What," as he weaved through suburban traffic.

"What the hell happened?" Missouri demanded. "Somethin's up with you two. I can feel it."

Just what he needed. Dean slammed his palm into the steering wheel and snapped, "You're the fucking psychic. You figure it out."

"Boy, I know better than to poke around someone's head without an invitation." Missouri paused. When she spoke again, it was softer. "Dean, honey, tell me what happened."

Dean gnawed on his lower lip and contemplated throwing his phone out the window. Instead, he forced out, "We're dealing with it," and then hung up.

*   *   *

He got a motel room and sat for maybe an hour, staring at his phone. Calling Sam might be a bad idea. They were both in shit moods now, and besides, Dean had no idea what the hell he would say. No idea.

Rubbing a palm over his face, Dean sighed and dug the newspaper obits out of his bag. There was nothing else he could do except work.

Except, over the next few weeks, Dean started to realize that he didn't work well by himself. He wasn't bad, but he wasn't up to his usual standards, and he guessed it was because he had never really hunted alone. When he was a kid, he always had Dad or Sam by his side, and when Sam left, there was Dad. And when Dad wasn't there, he had Sam. He was just not that good without a partner—someone to bounce ideas off of, someone to watch late night TV with.

He missed Sam. He really, really did.

*   *   *

It was disturbing, how much Sam intruded on his sex life without even being there. He spent days looking for a girl named Samantha just so he could say, "Sammy," when she had his cock in her mouth. If he found a tall waiter with hair in his face, Dean fucked him.

After the first month, though, it was back to old habits. He spent the nights he wasn't hunting screwing whatever easy bar skank he came across or jerking off in the shower.

*   *   *

"Good to see you," Bobby greeted him the second he was out of the Impala. He clapped Dean on the back and guided him inside.

"Thanks for the refill," said Dean. He picked up one of the multiple bottles of holy water sitting on Bobby's bench and eyed it. "I'm almost out and I keep hearin' about a possible nest of succubae ‘round the way I'm goin', so I wanted to be—"

"Dean."

"Yeah?"

"What the hell happened with you and your brother."

Dean's jaw tightened and he said nothing as he unzipped his bag. When he started sweeping the holy water in, Bobby fixed him with a hard stare.

"You know, for a guy who has no kids, you've sure got the Dad glare," Dean mentioned when he was finished.

"What's so bad that you can't tell me?" Bobby asked, crossing his arms. "You know I ain't gonna take sides."

"Yeah," said Dean. He scratched the back of his neck. "But I'm still not tellin' you."

*   *   *

After a month and a half, Dean got two voicemails from Sam. The first was a rambling, obviously drunk message that Dean didn't hear until the morning.

"Dean." Sam drew out his name, thick and slow, and then chuckled. "Dean, man. I know our family's pretty messed up, but you had to win, right? Y'always have to win. So damn compet—competitive. I went to college. You convinced yourself that we were havin' sex every night. I gotta say, you take the fuckin' trophy on that one. Gold star, son."

Dad was the only person who could call Dean son without getting hit. He bet there was a reason Sam decided to use that particular nickname.

Sam paused; it was nothing but breathing for twenty seconds, maybe more.

"So, this thing—this thing start up recently, or did you want me before? Before this year? Before Dad died? Before Stanford? Di'you want me when I was maybe twelve, and I was havin' wet dreams all the time…did you watch me? Did you watch me come? Or did you help me come? Did you reach into my boxers and jerk me off?

"Naw. Naw, twelve's too young. Tha—Tha'd be gross. Bet you waited a couple'a years ‘fore you started thinking ‘bout touching your fucking brother. You fucking asshole. Shit. You shoulda died all those times you didn't."

The second was what woke Dean up, around ten.

"I'm a stupid drunk. I didn't mean it." Sam was quiet. Hungover, probably. He sighed and then said, almost in a whisper, "I'm sorry."

Dean deleted them both.

*   *   *

At the six month mark, Dean found himself pulling into the Roadhouse's parking lot. He felt like bullying Ash into doing some fancy computer shit for him, because there was no new hunt in place and it might be nice to see if the demon had done anything new.

He strolled inside, said hello to Ellen, and endured a brief interrogation about Jo's whereabouts. Once Ellen was satisfied, she told him Ash was in his room. Dean nodded, gave her a tight smile, and headed for the Dr. Badass sign.

"Ash, man, haven't seen you in—" Dean started as he swung the door open, and at what he saw inside, the words were gone.

That was Ash on his bed, smoking a joint. Not anything too unusual, but he was passing it to Sam—Sam, who was sitting on the floor, one knee bent, head tilted back in a laugh. That was Sam and Dean hadn't seen him in half a goddamn year, and he didn't know what to do except stand in the doorway, hand on the knob, and let himself stare.

Sam looked healthy. Maybe a little thinner. His hair was longer, curling around his ears more, and fuck. He was still beautiful and Dean still felt that awful tug in his belly that said he was an evil piece of shit.

"Oh, crap," Sam said through a cloud of smoke.

Dean couldn't think of anything he could say to that except, "Yeah."

Clearly oblivious, Ash waved as he sucked in a hit. Dean nodded. His words had trouble breaking through the discomfort in the room and he had to clear his throat before he said, "Uh." Smooth, Dean. Smooth. "I think I'm gonna—"

"Naw, sit down!" Ash smacked the mattress as he gave the joint to Sam, who looked at Dean quickly before he raised it to his mouth. "C'mon. Haven't seen you in awhile, like you were gonna say ‘fore you…well, before you stopped talking."

"Yeah," said Sam, so quietly Dean wasn't sure Ash heard it. "Yeah. Sit down."

Dean let go of the doorknob and took a seat on the floor, leaning into the bedside table. Sam, he realized, looked really, really high, and that thought made him laugh, because he remembered thirteen-year-old Sam lecturing him about the long-term effects of marijuana and how, more importantly, Dad would make Dean run laps if he found out.

"Maybe it's a good thing you went to college."

There was a terrible moment where Sam just stared at him and Ash watched the ceiling, and then Sam's face relaxed into a broad grin. Dean felt himself loosen up a bit.

"Yeah, I guess some decent things came out of it," Sam said. He offered the joint. "Want any?"

Dean shook his head. "I, uh. I'm probably leavin' soon, and I don't wanna drive stoned."

"Leavin'?" Ash repeated. He was still looking at the ceiling. "Just got here."

"Yeah," Dean replied, just to fill the silence he knew was coming.

Except it wasn't, because Ash tilted his head to the side and asked, "How come you boys aren't hunting together anymore?"

There were plenty of interesting things to look at in Ash's room, Dean discovered. His TV. His impressive porn collection. That weird computer that he probably made in twenty minutes. The poster of Angelina Jolie in the corner. Hell, the dirty carpet. Balls of dust and grime were very exciting.

"Just needed a break, is all," Sam answered and Dean wanted to look at him to say thanks, but he didn't he think he could. He settled for tapping it out in Morse code on his knee. Sam probably wouldn't notice.

Ash nodded and announced, "Need to piss." He took what was left of the joint out of Sam's hand and tucked it into the corner of his mouth, then went to open the door. He was unbuttoning his jeans as he disappeared out of Dean's view.

The silence lasted for a couple moments, neither of them looking at each other, and then Dean cleared his throat again because it was too much. "So." He clapped his hands together, digging dirtied nails into his skin. "How have you been."

"I've been okay. You?"

"Good."

They were silent again. There wasn't really anything else to say, or maybe there was too much, and Dean just wanted to go. It was weird, because he'd spent half a year with his head all fucked up because he needed Sam, and there he was, stupidly stoned and stupidly good-looking, and Dean just wanted to get the hell out. Maybe he should find a hunt in Russia or something.

"Ash isn't very socially suave," Sam said. He looked to be forcing his mouth into a smile, but the chuckle that came was real.

Dean nodded, returning the smile. The want curling in his belly was more than just a need to leave, and that only reminded Dean that the Impala was calling. He stood, saying, "I'm gonna go."

"Okay," Sam said. His eyes flicked between Dean and the floor. "You're welcome."

Dean turned, his hand on that damn doorknob again. "What?"

"You're welcome," Sam repeated. "For what you said earlier. On your knee."

"Oh." Dean looked down and scratched the back of his neck. "Uh, thanks."

"You're welcome." A lazy smile slipped onto Sam's mouth. "We gonna do this all day?"

Dean let himself laugh at that. He raised his hand in an awkward little wave. "Bye."

"Wait."

Dean turned around, again, and watched Sam draw his knees to his chest and rest his elbows on top. He fixed a gaze on Dean and when he spoke, it was quiet.

"I wanna come home."

"Don't," Dean snapped before he caught himself. He bowed his head and pushed his knuckles into the door, chewing on his tongue. "Don't, Sam—"

"I miss you," said Sam. He was rocking vaguely from side to side and it made him look so perversely young that Dean wanted to hit something. "And yeah, I sound like those movies you hate but sometimes watch when I go to sleep, but—shit, Dean. Lemme—lemme come home."

"You left. Again."

Sam threw his hands up in the air. "That was before—"

"Just stop there," Dean cut in hastily and left, his shoulder bumping into the sign.

"Wait—please—"

God help him, he did. He stopped, listened to Sam's footsteps, and turned around in time for Sam to invade his personal space.

"I thought about this," Sam said, his eyes still stoned-heavy. Dean nodded and tried to turn, thinking he heard Ash, but Sam grabbed his jaw and forced him to look straight ahead. "A lot. And. I want to. Okay?"

That vague wording was about to get Dean in trouble. He didn't know if Sam meant he wanted to come back and forget everything that happened, or if Sam wanted—that—and he couldn't ask. Instead, he swallowed and waited for Sam to give him the answer. It was a tiny smile and Sam moved forward, then faltered back half a step. He kept moving his hands in these quick, jerking motions as if he didn't know where to put them, and Dean was starting to think it was the second option, but he had to wait, because he wasn't fucking this up for a second time.

And then Sam bent down and kissed him, clumsy and hot and really, really wrong. Dean's back hit the wall and Sam's teeth knocked into his, and then he just had to touch any part of Sam he could, because this was real, not some weird—whatever the hell happened. He fisted his hands in Sam's shirt and tugged him closer, the scent of weed abruptly hitting his nose, and there was an awful moment where Dean remembered that Sam was high now. What was happening could backfire tomorrow or in an hour, and even though this was really great (way better than when he and Sam—or, his DreamSam, or AsleepSam, or whatever the hell happened—screwed around in the dark), he had to know:

"Tell me you're sure," Dean said into Sam's neck, biting and licking at the sweaty skin.

Sam nodded, his day-old stubble scratching Dean's cheek. "Spent six months thinking about it. I'm fine. Really."

And then there were footsteps and Dean pushed himself away, stumbling back a few steps. It was Ash. Dean didn't think he saw anything, because Ash just nodded and pulled another paper out of his pocket as he stepped into his room. Ellen came hurrying down the hallway right after him, barking, "I don't give a shit what you're smoking, as long as you do it in your—Oh. Sam, Dean. See you've found each other."

Sam looked at Dean before he said, "Yeah."

There was about a minute of silence, with Ellen glancing between the two of them, a mildly worried expression on her features. Dean stepped forward, his elbow bumping into Sam's, and then Ellen said, "Nice to see you boys together again."

She asked if they were planning to stay. Dean didn't know, and when he did nothing but say, "Uh," and Sam just made an uncomfortable expression, the corners of her mouth twitched into a smile and she said, "Take Jo's room and stay as long as you like. It's only the one bed, though."

"It's okay," said Sam, shrugging. Dean figured that yes, it was.

The evening crowd was starting to come in, so Ellen gave them a six-pack and pointed them towards Jo's room. It was on the other side of the bar, and inside, a dusty twin-sized bed was up against the wall. There were bookshelves and a single dresser, posters of 80's bands on the walls, but everything looked untouched.

Dean sat on the bed with the beer and asked, "What've you been driving?"

That made Sam laugh. He nudged the door shut and sat cross-legged on the other end of the bed, gesturing for a beer. Dean passed him one. "Haven't seen you in half a year and you want to know what car I've been using?"

"It's an important question," said Dean, leaning against the wall. He used his ring to open up the beer and took a long swallow. "Can't have the Winchester name soiled by a Volvo or somethin'."

Sam shook his head, grinning at Dean from underneath his hair.

"I had a truck."

They talked for hours, about hunting and what states they had been to and who they had seen. Sam said he met Matt Damon in New York and Dean almost choked, but then Sam smiled around his bottle and Dean called him a little bitch. It was nice, to be talking as if none of that shit ever happened. He and Sam had always been good at that. But, it had to come up eventually, so Dean said, "We gonna talk about—" and made a vague motion with his hand.

Sam shook his head. He took the last bottle and knocked it against the headboard, snapping the cap off. "I know you don't want to."

Dean said thanks with a nod and drained the rest of his beer.

"Missed you," Sam said, rubbing his thumb in little circles against the side of the bottle. He stretched out his legs, feet bumping into Dean's knee.

"You said so."

"Yeah, well." Sam looked up, thumb still pressing into his bottle. "I really did."

Then Sam licked the corner of his mouth, quickly enough that it probably wasn't meant to mean anything, but Dean's hands were abruptly tight on his empty beer and there it was: the want, what he had been trying to shove away since July, started up again like that, and he was hard and aching to touch Sam again.

So, he did. He placed his bottle on the ground and moved up the bed, knee sinking into the lumpy mattress. Sam grabbed him by the collar of his flannel, yanking, and their mouths slammed together in a hard, sloppy kiss. Dean said, "Ngh," and swung one leg over Sam's thighs, pushing his hands up the worn T-shirt. "Uh—how far do you want to—I mean, how long do you—Ellen and Ash—"

"Just touch me," Sam grunted against Dean's cheek, fumbling at his belt buckle.

*   *   *

After, Dean shifted on the mattress and stared at the ceiling, his elbow knocking into Sam's side. That was weirder than the first time, because all that happened in those months wasn't real. Dean remembered amateur blowjobs, no words, and Sam coming when Dean bit down on his nipple. Turned out, Sam liked giving head and wasn't too bad at it; when Dean jacked him off, slow and lazy, Sam panted filthy, obscene things in Dean's ear, and when Dean pinched a nipple, Sam laughed and said he wasn't a chick. Everything was backwards and what Dean thought he knew about Sam was probably wrong, and he didn't like that. He never liked running into something blind, and it was happening again.

Sam scratched his belly. "I meant what I said earlier. About how I had six months to think about this."

"Thought we weren't gonna talk," said Dean.

"Well, you should know. I freaked, okay? I think you can guess why and man, I'm sorry for those voicemails—they were really awful—but I did think about it every day and. Well. I'm not. I mean, it's wrong, but. Shit. Okay. Look, we're gonna be fine, right?"

Dean looked over and held out his knuckles. Sam bumped them with his own.

"Yeah."

*   *   *

The next morning, Dean awoke alone. Panic seized him and he choked for a moment, until he saw the note on the empty side of the bed.

I'm eating breakfast.

Dean crumpled up the paper and walked out of Jo's room. Sam was sitting at the bar with a bowl of Cheerios. He looked up when Dean came in and said, "Hi," with the spoon still in his mouth. Dad's journal and a couple newspapers were spread across the counter.

A weird embarrassment curled in Dean's belly. He didn't know what to do. He hadn't dated (not that he and Sam were dating, but he had no idea what else to call it) someone since Cassie, and that—well, that didn't end too well, and his high school romances didn't help. He didn't know how he was supposed to say hello to Sam—kiss, hug, nod, touch on the shoulder? Just the words? Sam had to want something. Sam was all romantic and that shit when he was seven and "dating" a girl in his class, and Dean knew that sentimental crap still lingered.

"Might have a job for us," Sam continued. He jabbed a pen towards an obit that he had circled. "Bunch of deaths in a nursing home."

Dean took the stool next to Sam and skimmed the article, fingers tapping against the bar. He could feel Sam staring at him and he cleared his throat. "Looks good."

"Yeah." Sam's hand came to rest on Dean's knee and Dean had to look up, his own hand tightening on the counter. He asked, "Wanna go now?" and when Dean nodded, said, "Can I drive?"

"Dunno," said Dean. "She's never really taken well to you."

Sam squeezed his knee and stood, knocking his shoulder into Dean's lightly. He held out his palm for the keys and, sighing, Dean reached into his pocket. When Sam had them in his hand, he leaned in and kissed Dean's forehead.

"Dude," Dean tried not to wrinkle his nose, "a bit much," but Sam just grinned and walked outside. Dean went into Jo's room, where Sam had put his duffels last night after giving the truck to Ash. He heaved one over his shoulder and carried the other in his hand, kicking the door shut. Ellen was behind the bar, scrubbing down the counter, when he walked in.

"You headed out?" she asked. Her voice was rough as hell in the morning.

"Yeah," Dean said, nodding. "I, uh. Thanks. For not telling me he was here."

Ellen smiled. "Figured all you boys needed was a poke in the right direction."

"Thanks," he repeated and adjusted his grip on the duffels. He smiled, nodded again, and headed out to the Impala. Sam was in the driver's seat, tapping his fingers along to Houses of the Holy. Dean dumped their duffels into the back.

"I think she missed me," said Sam when Dean got inside.

Something stupid flitted across Dean's mind, something like she wasn't the only one, but he just slung his arm out the open window and said, "Let's go."