Summary: A mystery to solve, some sloppy incantation-making, and Sam has to save Dean.
Warnings: Rated NC-17, m/m, incest
Temperance, Nebraska: a few Depression-era storefronts along a cracked stretch of sidewalk, public library, the local jail. And people wondered why small towns were dying out. If somebody could just shoot this place already and put it out of its misery, everyone would be a whole lot better off, that's what Dean thought at least.
The good news--as good as it got anyway when high school kids were mysteriously disappearing and nobody seemed to know a damned thing about it--was that small towns always had a wrong side of the tracks, a roadhouse just across the county line, some place you could go for a beer, forget for a little while that you were in the middle of god-forsaken nowhere.
In Temperance, it was the Blue Moon, a squat building, not blue at all but the color of dust, on the outskirts of town, the parking lot filled with pickup trucks and flame red Camaros with fuzzy dice dangling from the mirrors. Inside it smelled like stale beer and lingering sweat, another Thursday night in the heartland. Dean slid onto a barstool, ordered a beer, plunked down his cash.
Across the way a woman was eyeing him, her white-blonde hair parted straight down the middle, blue eyeliner like it was going out of style, like it had ever been in style, shocking red lips that twisted into a tellingly easy smile. The "hey, sailor" type, and Dean gave her a lazy grin in return. He threw down a few more dollars, sent her a drink. "Hey, sailor" was definitely his type.
She gave him a wink, raised her glass in thanks, and that was his cue to carry his beer down to her end of the bar.
"I'm Dean. You mind if I join you?"
"Jackie. And I'd mind if you didn't."
They did the small talk thing. Jackie worked as a hairdresser over at the Stardust Beauty Salon. Dean threw out his usual disclaimer, just passing through, so there wouldn't be any surprises later.
Jackie's eyes flashed with interest at that. "Out seeing America, huh?" she said with a hint of envy.
"Something like that."
It always amazed him how many of these women in these small towns daydreamed about life on the road. He ordered another round, and Jackie leaned in close to ask if he'd ever seen the Grand Canyon, blowing in his ear as she did it. Getting laid was so damned easy. Dean often thought he should write a book.
A couple of tequila shots, and Jackie suggested, "You want to go somewhere?"
"Yeah, but I got my kid brother with me. He's asleep back at the motel. So it's got to be somewhere close by." He refused to feel guilty for making Sam sound like he was seven years old. What Jackie didn't know wouldn't hurt her. The same could be said for Sam.
They ended up out back behind the dumpsters. Dean shelved thoughts about the symbolism in that and concentrated on pushing up Jackie's skirt instead. It was one of those pleather deals and wasn't going easily. Jackie gave him a rough kiss, their teeth clicking together, then set to work on her blouse and his pants, pulling his cock out of his underwear, rolling a condom on him with practiced ease. He finally managed to hike the skirt up over her hips. Jackie wasn't wearing underwear, he appreciated that in a woman. He hoisted her up, pressed her back against the green metal. Her legs wound around his waist, and she guided his head to her tits while he pushed inside her. She smelled like fake leather and baby powder, and now that he had her up close, he could see how the makeup caked at the corners of her mouth. She closed her eyes, grinding down on his cock, taking what she could get while it lasted, and it occurred to Dean: We're two of a kind.
Sam was actually sleeping when he got back to the motel or at least pretending to be. It was hard to tell sometimes. Dean didn't turn on the light, just in case. He kicked off his shoes and fell into bed. The longer he lay there, though, the more he smelled like cigarettes and stranger sex, suddenly, unpleasantly overwhelming. He thought about getting up to take a shower, but he could hear the slow, heavy breathing coming from Sam's bed, his little bro not faking it for once. So he just stayed there, staring up at the ceiling. Pictures started to play back in his head, the way they sometimes did, of him and Sam when they were kids.
Sam never did give in to sleep too easily, which made sense in a family like theirs, with the things they'd seen. Dean used to have to carry him to his room at bedtime, and he could still remember Sammy's little boy smell, fresh from his bath, the warm scent of cotton pajamas and innocence. He could still feel Sammy's skinny little arms tangled around his neck, see the solemn look his brother would give him as he turned out the light, like he was putting all his faith in Dean to keep him safe from whatever might go bump in the night.
He sighed and turned onto his side. Sammy had his head tucked in the crook of his arm, the same way he used to sleep when he was little, and he looked so incongruously clean, in the truest sense of that word, in the midst of their flea-bitten motel room. Dean closed his eyes and let out his breath. He couldn't smell anything now but memories, and that was a relief.
The O'Brien's kitchen was painted a bright, crayon yellow. Sun streamed in through the window. There was a wallpaper border that lined the room, cozy looking housecats and teacups and the message, "Welcome to our happy home."
Mrs. O'Brien sat a cup of black coffee down on the table for Dean, pushed a plate of cookies towards him. Her hands shook, and she pulled them back, hid them in her lap. There were dark, sleepless smudges beneath her eyes.
"So you're from the Center for Missing and Exploited Children, Mr. Hamilton?"
"That's right," he answered in a tone of professional concern. "In cases like this, we try to give local law enforcement a hand. Do whatever we can to help get the child home safely."
Mrs. O'Brien nodded. "What do you need to know?"
"Could you describe your daughter for me?"
"Carolyn," she supplied the name. "She's a very good girl, Mr. Hamilton. Always was. Never a moment of trouble to her dad and me her whole life. She gets good grades. Goes to church every Sunday."
"Has she been dating anyone?"
Mrs. O'Brien shook her head. "We don't allow that."
Dean did his best to be gentle, "Sometimes, kids still find a way--"
"No," she said sharply. "Carolyn isn't that kind of girl."
"Of course not," Dean said reassuringly. "Can you tell me who her friends are? Anyone who might have seen her the night she disappeared?"
"She was supposed to be staying over at Marcia Belding's house. That's her best friend, since they were in kindergarten." There was a hitch in Mrs. O'Brien's voice. "But Marcia says she never saw her that night. Didn't know anything about her coming over." She met Dean's eye rather desperately. "What could have happened to my daughter, Mr. Hamilton?"
He returned her gaze steadily, the way he'd learned to do from his father. "I don't know yet, Mrs. O'Brien, but I'm going to do my best to find out."
There was a layer of dust on the shelves in the reference room at the library. Temperance, it seemed, wasn't much of a literary town. Dean paused in the doorway. Sammy was three tables away, head bent over some tome, a stack of other books surrounding him. For a second, it was like getting a window into Sammy's other world, the college boy that Dean would never really know. That thought left a dull ache. There wasn't supposed to be any part of Sammy that was a stranger to him. He had a sudden flash of Mrs. O'Brien, the pained confusion in her face, so certain she knew everything there was to know about her daughter, unable to explain the obvious contradiction.
Sam looked up at his approach, the sharp pinch to his features that meant he'd found something. "This has happened before. Lots of times. About every twenty years, in fact. A few students go missing."
"All saints and girl scouts? Because Mrs. O'Brien swears her daughter was."
Sam frowned, turned a page of the book. "Jeffrey Richards, local boy known for his dedication to rescuing abandoned animals, went missing on March 12th. That was 1983." He flipped another few pages. "Revered James Van der Lay said of the missing girl, Sonia Wyatt, 'She sings like an angel every week in our choir. She is an angel, and I can only pray that God will send her back to us very soon.' From back in '66." He glanced up sharply. "She also went missing on March 12th. Just like the girl we're looking for."
"Any significance to the day?" Dean asked.
"Not that I know of."
"I did get a lead. Carolyn was supposed to go stay with a friend that night."
Sam was already on his feet. "You think she might know something?"
Dean shrugged. "Couldn't hurt to ask."
Marcia Belding's bedroom looked like Barbie had done the decorating personally, all pink and frills and satiny stuff. A cake with too much frosting, that's what came to Dean's mind. Marcia herself was a walking advertisement for wholesomeness, blonde hair neatly braided, round face with soft pink cheeks, the kind of face that grandmothers loved to pinch.
Sam wandered around the room, picked up a photograph, Marcia and some zitty-faced boy with his arms around her, a lake in the background. "Is this your boyfriend?"
Marcia took the picture from him, put it back down on the shelf. "We used to go out, before he left for college. But that's all over now." She darted a glance at Dean.
This didn't escape Sam's notice. He threw Dean a meaningful look and did his best to blend into the pink floral wallpaper.
"So, we really appreciate your talking with us, Marcia," Dean said, taking the lead. "You mind answering a few quick questions?"
"I'm not sure how much help I can be," she said hesitantly, settling on the edge of the bed.
Dean sat down beside her. "According to Mrs. O'Brien, Carolyn said she was going to be sleeping over with you. You know that, right?"
Marcia nodded. "But she wasn't here. We never even talked about it."
"Are you sure she didn't ask you to cover for her? And maybe you feel too bad about what happened to admit it now? Maybe you don't want to upset Mrs. O'Brien?"
The girl's lip trembled. "That's not how it was. Why won't anybody believe me?"
Dean made his voice gentler, "I believe you, Marcia. So you didn't see Carolyn at all?"
Her gaze fell to the carpet, and she shook her head.
"Your mom said she and your dad went out that night. You had the house all to yourself. You have some fun?"
"Not really," she said softly. "Just watched TV."
"That show with Tonya. You know, the singer."
Dean nodded. "Yeah, that's cool. I like Tonya." He tilted his head. "You look a little like her, actually."
Her eyes snapped up to meet his. "Really?"
He smiled. "Really."
Her apple cheeks turned a brighter pink. "Thanks."
"Was it a good episode?"
Marcia frowned, like she was trying to remember, and finally just mumbled, "They all are."
"Doesn't sound like it made too much of an impression," Dean said lightly.
"It's just-- kind of a blur now." She looked away. "What with Carolyn disappearing and all."
"Yeah, I can understand that." He put a hand on her shoulder. "Thanks for talking to us, Marcia. I know this whole thing has been hard on you. But this was really helpful."
He got up from the bed, and Sam fell in beside him.
"No one's ever going to find her, are they?" Marcia asked, just as they were about to go.
"We don't know that," Sam told her.
Her face was a study in heartbreak. "I do."
Marcia's mother showed them out, and they waited until they were in the car before either of them said anything.
"You think she's lying?" Sam asked.
Dean stared out in the window. "I think she doesn't remember."
"Let's go back to the O'Brien's. Maybe Carolyn left us some clue."
Sam nodded, and Dean put the car in gear.
They hadn't gone far when Sam observed, "If Marcia had known something, I'm sure she would have told you. Confessed everything."
"Meaning you have that Dean Winchester way with the ladies."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Can it, okay, bro?"
But of course, Sam being Sam didn't. "Is that where you were last night? Having your way with some easily impressed girl?"
"Why? You jealous or something, Sammy?" He turned to gloat, but the way his brother was watching him gave him a quick new appreciation for keeping his eyes on the road.
"Why would I be jealous?"
The way Sam said it made Dean kind of glad he didn't know the answer to that question.
Mrs. O'Brien didn't seem particularly surprised to see him back again. She opened the door, invited them in with a nod of her head.
"This is my colleague, Sam," Dean said with a glance at his brother. "We'd like to have a look at Carolyn's room, if that's okay with you."
She led them up the stairs, pointed to a door at the end of the hall. Sam went on in.
Mrs. O'Brien told Dean, "I spoke with the Sheriff. He says he's never heard of anyone from the Center for Missing and Exploited Children getting involved in the investigation."
"Mrs. O'Brien--" He took a deep breath and then let it out again. Told her the truth instead, "I'm just somebody who wants to help."
She gave him a look so piercing he would have sworn she could see right down to his vital organs. At last, she nodded. "I'll be downstairs if you need anything."
In Carolyn's room, Sam was already at the computer, working his magic. Dean opened drawers, looked in the closet, sifted through turtlenecks and class photos and a big stack of romance novels.
"Anything?" he asked Sam.
He was frowning in concentration. "An email message she deleted the afternoon she went missing."
He dropped the backpack he was searching and strode over to the desk. "Can you get it back?"
Sam bit his lip while he typed. "I think-- Yes!"
Dean leaned over to get a better look. "Directions to a rave, huh?" He frowned. "In an old sod house. Does that sound like fun to you?" He shook his head. "Kids today."
"I doubt she would have gone there alone."
"Nope. She would have taken her best friend along."
"If there were drugs at the rave, I guess that could explain why Marcia's memory is fuzzy. But--" Sam looked puzzled. "Why hasn't anyone mentioned this before? You'd think a rave would be the first thing the cops would have checked out."
Dean shrugged. "No idea. But I guess we do know one thing. Carolyn wasn't a perfect angel."
"Who is?" Sam said distractedly, typing in more commands.
The printer whirred to life, and a sheet of paper shot out of it, a copy of the map to the old sod house.
"Good work, bro," Dean told him. "Now could you--"
Before he'd even finished the request, the message had disappeared, deleted once more. "There's no reason Mrs. O'Brien has to know," Sam said quietly. "It would just upset her."
Their eyes met, and Dean nodded.
Downstairs, they found her standing at the window in the living room, staring out. "I keep expecting to see her coming up the front walk."
Dean shut the door behind him, as quietly as he could.
Half an hour later, and it felt like they'd been driving for days, the land flat, unchanging, mile after mile of fields and sky and nothing else.
"There should be a fork in the road up here," Sam said, studying the map. "Bear to the right."
Dean did, turning off the state-maintained highway onto a dirt road.
"We should be getting close," Sam told him. "A bend in the road, and a willow tree, and to the left a mound of earth. That's the old sod house where the rave was supposed to be."
Dean drove on, and there was the bend in the road and the willow tree and nothing. He pulled the car over. "Good work, college boy. You read the map wrong."
"Did not." Sam shoved the piece of paper in his face. "It's supposed to be right there." He pointed out the back window.
"Well, it's not," Dean felt the need to point out the obvious.
Sammy got a thoughtful look and then asked, "You have Dad's book?"
"Yeah. Back seat." He jerked his head in the direction of it.
Sam leaned over, rummaged around until he found it, started flipping pages. "Come on."
He was already halfway out of the car before Dean could ask, "Why?"
"Shhh," Sam insisted and then started mumbling some kind of mumbo jumbo. A few seconds later, a sod house materialized out of nowhere.
"What the fuck--"
"An enchanted place. It must only appear once every two decades or so--"
"On March 12th," Dean finished the sentence. "But how did the girls know about it? Who sent the email?"
Sam shook his head.
"And what is the house doing here now?" Dean wanted to know. "On March 15th?"
"I summoned it." Sam held out the book to him. "Page forty-six."
Sammy always did have a better handle on the witchcraft stuff. Dean preferred things he could see to kill.
Dean made a face in answer to his brother's smug expression. "Well, what are we waiting for?"
He took a step toward the house, but Sam stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Better get your pack. We might need it."
"It's a heap of dirt." But Sam had that locked-jaw look to him, and Dean threw up his hands. "Okay, okay. If you're going to act like somebody's grandmother about it."
He pulled his gear out of the trunk, handed Sam a flashlight. They went around to the front of the sod house, and there was the door. At their approach, the latch threw itself back, and the door swung open, all on its own, as if it had been waiting for them. Dean had a sudden rush of gratitude for his brother's old-womanish caution.
He swept his arm out, flashed Sam a grin. "After you."
Sam scowled as he slipped past him. Inside it was pitch black. Dean swept the beam of his flashlight around the room. Simple dirt floor, whitewashed walls, some kind of inscription written on one of them in what looked like Latin. Sam stalled in front of that, gazing up at it, looking puzzled. There was nothing else to see, certainly no missing kids.
Dean edged toward the door. "I say we get out of here."
Sam nodded, looking kind of distracted. He opened the door, went out, but when Dean tried to follow, it felt like hitting a stone wall, like stepping on a live wire. He was thrown back so hard he hit the opposite wall.
"Dean!" Sam came running back.
Dean picked himself up from the ground. "What the fuck was that?"
Sam stared at the inscription on the wall again, thunderstruck.
"Could you just translate it for me already?" he said, getting snippy. His shoulder hurt, and he was tired of being reminded how badly he'd failed to grasp any of the Latin their father had tried to teach him.
Sam took a step closer to the wall, shining a light on it. "It talks about vowing allegiance to something called Aratu."
"What's an aratu?"
"I'm guessing some kind of Earth-based spirit. Or an ancient god." He moved the beam across the wall as he read. "It seems to have to do with the harvest, making periodic sacrifices to Aratu to ensure plentiful crops."
"And this has me stuck here how?"
"That's how the sacrifice was made, by trapping people here. The last part of the inscription it says something to the effect that 'whoever has not known the act of love shall pass through this door nevermore'."
Dean stared. "So this place is like a virgin trap?"
"Basically. A lot of cults through the ages have believed there was special power in sacrificing virgins."
"But I've had sex," Dean said, rather offended. "I've had a lot of sex."
"Just try to calm down--"
He kicked at the dirt futilely. "I've had more sex than you'll ever hope to have."
Sam hesitated a moment. "I think they may have gotten their incantation a little wrong--"
"Damn right they did!" he said loudly. "This is ridiculous, Sam. I am not a freakin' virgin. And I'm walking out that door right now."
But it was too late, he was already charging toward daylight. The invisible forced threw him back even more violently this time than it had before. He must have blacked out for a few seconds, because the next thing he knew he was in a heap on the floor, his head hurt like hell, and Sam was shaking him frantically.
"You can stop that now, Sammy." He groaned as he pulled himself up into a sitting position.
"Don't do that again," Sam snapped at him. "You scared the shit out of me."
Dean closed his eyes, rested his pounding head against the wall. "So why exactly won't this place let go of me?"
Sam sighed, settled onto the floor next to him. "I think it's the words they chose, whoever did this way back when. They're imprecise, a euphemism, factum amoris, 'act of love.' It's sloppy incantation-making."
"Gotta hate that."
Sam fell quiet, but Dean knew that wouldn't last.
"So " he ventured. "None of them? You never-- not once--"
"No," Dean cut him off. "Never." He laughed bitterly. "This gives a whole new meaning to dying unloved, doesn't it?"
"Don't say that," Sam said softly.
"Where do you think they ended up? Carolyn. The others."
Sam shook his head. "They're just-- gone. Time must not work the same way here. This place is outside all that."
"Why would people do this? Sacrifice their own kids."
"Times were hard back then. One drought or blight, and everyone might die. A few lives for the common good, that's how they would have seen it. The spell does seem to be selective, doesn't lure just anyone. Only one or two kids have ever gone missing at a time."
"That explains why they did it back then, not now. Only Monsanto cares about the harvest these days."
"I doubt anyone else knows this exists. From what I read, the whole town pretty much got wiped out during a yellow fever outbreak at the turn of the last century. There wouldn't be any descendants left of the people who did this. Spells can be self-perpetuating, even adaptable."
"They can send email?"
"Like I said. Adaptable."
"Look, Sammy," Dean turned to him, "you got to get out of here. Look in some books. Figure something out. Come back for me."
Sam shook his head. "No."
"Don't go getting all stubborn on me, bro."
"If I leave, I'm not going to remember you're here. Don't you get that?" Sam's voice rose, the way it did when he was truly worried. "That's part of the enchantment. It's why Marcia was so confused."
"Well, we can't both die here. That's just stupid." After a moment, he added more quietly, "It's not what Dad would want."
"There is another way." A pause, and then Sam's hand settled on his leg.
"What are you doing, Sammy?" He could hardly breathe.
"It just needs to be with someone who loves you."
"No." He shook his head as emphatically as he could with one hell of a headache. "Absolutely not."
"I'm not going to lose you, too," Sam declared, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Dean frantically searched for something to say, some other way he could get the hell out of there, but there was no time. Sam's mouth found his, clumsily, fumbling in the dark.
"Sam," he meant to warn him away, but it came out low, breathy, more begging than warning.
Sam's lips parted, and Dean's did, and then he could feel, could taste, Sam's breath in his mouth. Heat lightning in Dean's veins, and he suddenly felt more alive than he'd ever been with anyone in his life. God, how long had he wanted this? How was that even possible?
He pulled back, stroked Sam's hair, whispered, "I can't."
"Well, I can."
Sam's hands scrabbled at his pants, popping the button, tugging down his zipper. The rush of cold air hit Dean's cock, making him hiss through his teeth. Sam bent his head, and then there was no more cold, only wet and hot. Dean was instantly, utterly hard.
He banged his head back against the wall. "Fuck!"
His cock slipped from Sam's mouth. Sam scooted closer and went at it again, getting his mouth around the head, not quite sure what to do with his tongue. He'd obviously never given a blowjob before. That made it better, as much as Dean would have liked to deny it, and so much worse.
"Sam," Dean said softly, hand resting on his brother's head, fingers stroking through his hair. "Sammy."
Sam breathed out through his nose, intensified his efforts. When he dragged his tongue along the underside of Dean's cock, Dean started to shake. Sam did it again, testing his reaction, and Dean let out a thoroughly desperate whimper. Could this really be what he'd been waiting his whole life for? His little brother's mouth?
Sam pulled off with an obscene smack of the lips, a sound that in no conceivable universe should Dean connect with the two of them. Sam's hand took the place of his mouth, fingers squeezing, fist sliding, making Dean groan. He hooked his arm around Sam's shoulders and pulled him close. Their first kiss had been tentative; this one was anything but, hot clash of mouths, edge of teeth.
"Dean," Sam said breathlessly, asking for something.
"Yeah, Sammy, yeah," Dean said, giving it to him.
He bucked up into Sam's touch, pressing his face into the warm curve of his neck. Sam smelled like damp wool and manhood and fear, but still so sweetly clean.
Sam kissed him and then went down on him again. It was easier this time to find a rhythm, Sam's head bobbing in his lap. Dean kept a hand in Sam's hair and bit his lip hard when he felt like he was going to come.
"Sammy!" he warned.
But Sam didn't stop, wouldn't move away. Maybe he was afraid it wouldn't work any magic if he did. Sam was a stickler for details; that was the kind of thing he would think of. When Dean came in Sam's mouth, there were two thoughts tangled up in his head: that this was everything he'd ever been missing and that he was proud of his brother for taking it like a man. He suspected those two little thoughts were going to fuck him up for a long time to come.
Afterwards, he tucked his cock back into jeans. Sam wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and Dean could feel him shaking. "It's okay," Dean told him quietly. "Everything's going to be okay now."
They got to their feet, and Sam held the flashlight while he flipped the pages of their father's book.
"What are you doing?" Dean asked.
"We've got to destroy this place. Say this, and keep saying it, as we go out the door." He pointed to the page.
More Latin, Dean thought, just great.
Sam started to chant, Dean mumbled along, doing his best. Sam threw the door open, reached for Dean's hand, and shot a look over his shoulder. Reassurance, if Dean had to guess, but it was hard to tell. Sam dashed toward the light, dragging Dean with him. There was a small part of him that expected to end up plastered against the wall again, but this time the air was just air, and he passed right through it. Just in time, too, because once they were outside, the sod house began to melt and contort and make a high whining sound like something about to explode. Or perhaps implode, because that's what it looked like, dissolving into a dark pool, thick like tar, that got smaller and smaller until it ceased to exist at all.
Dean let out his breath. "Thank God."
"Yeah." Sam said in a faraway voice, as if the shock were just setting in.
"Let's--" Dean wanted to say go home, but what did that mean for them? "get out of here."
It was the best he had to offer.
Sam was quiet the whole ride back to town, didn't speak until they stepped into their room, and then announced in a clipped tone, "I'm going to take a shower."
"Sure, bro. Whatever. You want pizza or Chinese for dinner?"
Sam didn't answer, just shut himself up in the bathroom. A few seconds later, Dean heard the water start.
"Whatever I want is cool? Hey, thanks, Sammy," he said to himself.
Dean sat down on the edge of his bed and waited. And waited. The shower kept going, and he got up to pace.
"Hey, Sammy, you gonna be much longer?" he called out.
He knocked at the door. "You trying to run through all the hot water? You know I hate it when you do that."
He stood there listening, but all he could hear was the shower. "That's it," he said at last, and let himself into the bathroom.
"Hey, don't freak out, okay?" he said, edging across the room, stepping over the pile of discarded clothes. "I just wanted to make sure you're all right." He paused. "Sammy?"
Nothing but the water, and he was getting pretty tired of this shit.
"Okay, just remember you asked for this."
He pulled the shower curtain back, and Sammy was standing there under the spray, eyes closed, cock hard, his expression bleak. The water was hot, steam rising, but Sam was shivering like he was freezing to death.
"You saved my life," Dean reminded him.
"I liked it," Sam said grimly. "Even now, I can't help--" He broke off miserably.
Apparently in Sammy logic it was one thing to blow your brother to save his life, but another to get hard thinking about it afterwards.
"It's okay," Dean told him. "It's going to be okay."
He wasn't sure why taking off his clothes and getting in the shower with his brother seemed like the thing to do. It just did. He pressed himself against Sam's back, noticing how easily they fit together, but then, they really were two of a kind. He wrapped his arms around Sammy, and Sammy's hands closed over his arms, holding onto him.
Dean pressed his lips to his brother's temple. "I love you. You're the only one."
Then he made Sammy let go of him, so he could move his hands
lower. Sammy let out a wild noise and pushed back against him,
and Dean kissed his neck. Later, he knew, he would lay Sammy out
on those cheap motel sheets, look at him, touch him, do things
that there would be no excuse for. But this, here, now,
this was just taking care of his brother, and that
that was nothing he would ever be sorry for.