Room and Board
by Maygra

Ratings: Mature Adult
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings: Incest. Graphic sex. Rent-boy Fic. Mild reference to bondage and dicipline. Horrible rent boy cliches. Apologies to my hometown for any and all slurs, deserved as they may be at times. I am not a lawyer nor do I play one on TV. There's as much accuracy in the legal bits here as I and my court recorder friend could put together before bogging down helplessly. We're probably slightly more accurate than the WB would ever be on local statutes, laws, and allowable diversion of court resources.

Also, The Hex is a real place, (just not by that name) and as far as I know, Greg (not his real name) is a totally nice guy. Markos (not his real name), however, is a jerk and deserves what he got.

Notes: Many, many thanks to AuKestrel, Bone and Meg for the beta work.

This story was inspired by the picture (<-- over there) and is for elynross, who really is kind of to blame for the whole thing. Merry Christmas, hon.

The characters and situations portrayed here are not mine, they belong to the WB. This is a fan authored work and no profit is being made. Please do not link to this story without appropriate warnings. Please do not archive this story without my permission.

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Room and Board
by Maygra

Seems like the world's gone underground
No gods or heroes dare to go down
Teardrops from a hole in heaven come
Overhead like ravens dropping down like bombs

Through the mornings silver frosted glow
God says nothing back but I told you so
I told you so

God bless the void of my daydreams
Head back in the snow making angel wings
As slow motion dancing lights at dawn
Sail beneath a burning yellow sun

God Says Nothing Back Lyrics ~The Wallflowers

Part One

Dean flashes his best -- and most insincere -- smile at the properties officer as he signs his name and picks up his wallet, his necklace, his ring and watch, and the change he had in his pocket. The officer, a big, burly man with short-cropped grizzled gray hair doesn't smile back and isn't impressed or taken in.

But the cash he'd had left is still in his wallet, his watch still works, and Sam has his car keys. Dean has never been so ready to leave a place as he is right this second, and he has every intention of putting about six hundred miles between himself and the not so hospitable welcome he's gotten from the City of Atlanta.

Fucking narrow-minded, morally righteous, backwater hick town masquerading as a metropolis. There are parts of the deep south Dean really, really likes. Atlanta and the Fulton County jail are not parts he likes at all.

He passes by three more guards and two more check points before he gets out of the building, clutching his paperwork and trying to walk normally, like he doesn't want to run like hell.

The final steel door opens with an automatic hydraulic squeal and Dean blinks at the early morning sunshine in what has to be the ugliest part of off any city, anywhere. But there is Sam, waiting in the parking lot, sitting on the hood of Dean's car.

And he has coffee. Some days, Dean loves his little brother more than anything in the world. "Thought you might want this," Sam says, sliding off the hood and Dean takes the cup and sniffs, then drinks deeply and starts to feel slightly more normal.

"You okay?" Sam asks him and the question is light, but there's concern there too.

"I'd have been better if you'd managed this three days ago," Dean says. "But yeah…Jesus. Let's get the hell out of here. We can be in someplace civilized in a couple of hours. Like Tennessee."

Sam leans back and shakes his head. "We can't leave."

"Bull shit. The hell hound we came down here after is dog chow. I'm out of jail. We are soooo leaving. Keys."

"We can't, Dean." Sam's got that resolute thing going in his voice and Deans stares at him. Then takes another look. Sam looks about as well as Dean feels, like he hasn't gotten any sleep in the last few days.. Fulton County jail, unlike a lot of small town jails he's spent a night or two in over the years, is big and crowded, and he hasn't been sharing space and air with the town drunk or the guys who got a little excited on a Saturday night. There are some seriously scary people being held in that four story concrete prison of a jail. People who remind Dean that not all monsters in the world can be banished with the right combination of charms and spells and the liberal application of rock salt and holy water.

"I'm not staying here."

"I got us a room downtown."

"Well, I hope you didn't leave anything there because we're not staying," Dean says, a little more flatly. Coffee or no coffee, bail or no bail, Sam's starting to piss him off. "Give me the damn keys."

"No. Listen to me, very carefully, asswipe," Sam says and Dean's taken aback a little at the anger seething under Sam's tone. "Gambling is a misdemeanor. That means a fine, about a thousand bucks as near as I can tell. We are going over to the court house and you're going to file a plea of guilty to all charges--"

"I am not! It was a fifty dollar bet, Sam!"

"It's still illegal and you got caught, and if you don't file guilty, we'll need to get a lawyer, which we can't afford."

"Which we won't need if we get the hell out of town, like, oh, now!" Dean snaps.

"Which would mean they'll put out a warrant. You've already been charged. Fleeing a warrant could bump it up to a felony, and if you skip on the bail, they'll hunt us. Bounty hunters don't have to respect state lines," Sam is glaring now.

"For a fifty dollar bet?"

Sam leans back against the car and shakes his head. "No, for a five thousand dollar bail."

They have officially entered the Twilight Zone, and Dean thought he'd always feel right at home here but no – it's just as whacked out as everything else he knows. "Five grand for a fifty dollar bet?"

"Five grand because you tried to run, because we don't have a local address, and because it was a big sting operation for the city. They aren't fucking around, Dean. Even if you plea, it'll be a week or so before you go before the judge. You waive a jury, you waive a defender. You plead guilty. You pay the fine. Then we leave."

"And if they want to throw my ass back in there?" Dean says pointing at the monolithic structure behind them.

"They won't, not if we get the plea in before anyone starts doing any serious checking for priors. It's a misdemeanor, Dean. They won't check unless you give them reason…and if they do check, what are they going to find?"


Sam gives him a skeptical look.

"What? That thing in St. Louis?" Dean asks.

Sam looks down and Dean, despite being pissed off, wishes he hadn't said it.

But Sam shakes his head. "No. I'm not worried about St. Louis. They don't generally put warrants out for dead people. But you busted out of jail in California and you cannot tell me that there aren't other places that, if anybody looked, would be so very happy to get a piece of your ass."

"Dude! Don't even joke. I just spent three days watching my ass and keeping my back to the wall," Dean says and suddenly Sam's got that same nearly panicked look on his face. "Okay, I'm fine, Sammy. Nothing happened. Shit." Dean takes another sip of coffee, then hands it to Sam who finishes it off. "Five thousand…where the hell did you get five grand?"

"I didn't. I got a bond…five hundred," Sam blows out a breath, "Which we won't see again. But I have another couple of hundred toward the fine. We’ll have to hustle to get the rest," he says and shoots Dean a warning look. "And I don't mean pool." He reaches in his pocket and pulls out the keys.

Dean stares at him then away and kicks at the asphalt before going around the front of the car. "You drive. Tell me this place has a shower."

Sam nods, a small smile twitching his lips. "It has a shower. A little noisy at night but cheap. I paid for the week."

"What, did you knock over a liquor store?" Dean asks as he settles into the passenger side and leans back. He still isn't quite on board with the whole thing about staying, but right now he wants a shower, clean clothes, and hopefully, a clean bed.

"Not quite. I got a job," Sam says and put the Impala in gear.

They spend four hours at the courthouse, and more than once Sam has to kick Dean into being as humble and apologetic and completely cowed as he can possibly pull off. Dean's pretty sure no one is buying it but he gets his plea in and he has his day in court set in seven days. There is something to be said about having a lawyer – well, an almost lawyer -- in the family. And Dean feels a twinge of guilt at the acknowledgement that Sam probably would have made a hell of a lawyer if things had turned out differently.

But they didn't.

Papers in hand, they finally head to the hotel around noon.

The hotel looks like it was built in the 1950's. It's not a chain but it is smack in the middle of midtown, on the mid-city side instead of the yuppies-who-star-on-DIY-shows side. But the room is clean, if shabby. The carpet’s a little frightening in the may-have-come-from-the- lobby-of-hell way. But it has a little tiny refrigerator, a little tiny coffeepot, and a not so tiny supply of hot water, and Dean spends a good twenty minutes under it just to get the smell of sweat and fatigue out of his pores. By the time he gets out, Sam's already crashed in the other bed, his clothes folded up on the narrow desk. Dean catches a whiff of liquor and smoke, seriously thinks about having a drink or six, and then crashes hard for the first real sleep he's had in three days.

Six hours later he cracks and eyes to see Sam up and moving and he rolls over. Sam's obviously just showered and he's checking his bag for clean clothes by eyeballing them and sniffing.

"Decent place to eat around here?" Dean asks, rubbing his eyes.

"Decent or cheap?" Sam gives him a fast, small smile.

"Decent and cheap?"

Sam thinks for a second. "There's a Thai place two blocks up; five bucks will get you all the Pad Thai even you could eat."

Dean isn't sure he's ever had whatever it is his brother's talking about. Mexican, Chinese, Italian, American…not that he isn't willing to try new things but usually the weirder it is, the more expensive, but hey, in this case it's Sam's twenty that he hands over.

"You want me to bring some back?"

Sam shakes his head and pulls on a pair of jeans that don't hang off his hips like too-big hand me downs, although the way he's having to work to get them on, Dean's thinking maybe he reached for a size too small in the Goodwill store. "No. I need to get going. I'll eat at the club," he says and pulls on a plain, white, tank-style t-shirt, also looking a size too small.

"I thought you didn't have to work until eight?" Dean says, watching Sam tuck in his shirt carefully and things a little more valuable even more carefully, beneath the denim. He almost cracks a joke about how Sam going commando in those jeans is likely to chafe but bites it back since Sam's the one paying the bills at the moment.

Turns out Sam's job is working as a bouncer at a bar a couple of blocks away and he’s pretty much been working 8-10 hours a night for the last three trying to scrounge up enough cash to make Dean's bond. In the mornings he’d hit the public library to find out what he could about Atlanta's gambling laws and once he managed to snag five minutes with a lawyer at one of the free legal clinics to confirm what he'd found.

"I told Greg -- he's the owner -- I'd help set up for a private party, work as a server," Sam says and pushes a hand through his wet hair. "Tips," he adds. "I should clear a couple of hundred."

Dean blinks. "Whoa. Wow. This must be some club," he says and Sam shrugs.

"Small, private…pays cash for day -- night -- labor. I got lucky."

"Does he need any extra help?" Dean asks and gets up himself, hunting for clothes of his own that don't smell days old. He's used to being the one bringing in most of their cash and he does it best by hustling pool or opting into a poker game, and occasionally by actually getting a job. Sam tends to prefer the last if they are going to be anywhere for very long, but he's not a bad pool player when motivated.

"I can ask," Sam says pulling on low heeled short boots that nonetheless give him an extra inch of height, which Dean finds slightly annoying and has since Sam was about fourteen.

"If servers make better -- I could do that," Dean says and Sam gives him a look. "What? Any idiot can wait tables."

"It's a bar. You'd have to get a server's license," Sam says. The light jacket he puts on is used and worn but leather. It's not really cold out but Dean supposes that the temperature probably drops a bit after midnight. Sam slides his wallet into his back pocket and Dean's a little surprised he can actually get the damn thing in there. "Bouncing is fifteen an hour, tax free," he says. "I'll check. If not this place, he owns another. I gotta go," Sam says. "Grab some dinner, get some sleep," he says with that crooked grin of his. "Do not shoot me when I get in."

"And that would be--"

"Around six, maybe earlier," Sam says. "You good?"

"Peachy. Hey, you need the keys?" he asks, seeing them on the dresser.

"No. I can walk. It's just a couple of blocks," Sam says and eyes Dean. "Do not…do not…do anything that will get you in trouble," he warns.

Dean would be hurt if he didn't think it was hysterically funny when Sam takes that tone. He presses his hand over his heart. "I will be so good you'll think I've been possessed."

"Not funny," Sam says, but his mouth twitches. "See you," and he's gone.

Dean moves to the window, watches his brother skirt the very scary looking pool in the courtyard and hit the street. He runs across and Dean almost feels sympathy in his balls. The jeans Sam is wearing look spray painted on and he swears his brother's got the longest fucking legs of any guy on the planet.

Sam reaches the other side of the street and walks quickly south and Dean's stomach grumbles. Part of him wants to get in the car and see what else the area offers but he can do it on foot as well and as much as he loves his car, it sucks gas like a Hoover.

The Thai place really is close and as inexpensive as Sam promised, with different but interesting smells. The descriptions are little geared toward insiders so Dean goes with Sam's suggestion and when his food is brought out he doesn't find it too weird to eat. Kind of an odd mix between Chinese and Italian is all he can think, but there's more than enough and he ends up taking half of it to go.

He hits a convenience store on the way back, uncomfortably aware of how much he’s spending. Sam left the stash of cash locked in the car -- a couple hundred, he'd said, and Dean figures the change from the twenty and buys a single beer, a soda, and a bag of chips to munch for the evening.

The change jingles in his pocket as he heads back to the room and checks at the desk to see if there's a Laundromat close by, and breaks the rest of his ones into change when the smiling girl at the desk tells him they have one on the premises. If Sam's going to work, the least Dean can do is wash their clothes. He finds himself reading the rate card at the desk while he waits for her to bring him change and it sticks in his mind but he can't figure out why at first.

Double room $59.95 a night, which isn't bad and Sam said he got a break for paying for a week in advance, just shy of four-hundred for the week.

Dean stores the food in the micro fridge and stuffs their dirty clothes into a pillow case, and while he's popping quarters into the little detergent dispenser, and mentally counting how many loads of laundry he can do with the change he's got left, he realizes the math doesn't add up.

Not even close.

Three days. Eight hundred dollars plus, maybe a grand, and no matter how he slices it, Sam making fifteen bucks an hour as a bouncer wouldn't have pulled in that kind of cash in three days. They'd had maybe two hundred bucks between them when Dean got arrested and half of that had been on Dean when he got picked up. Even if Sam's been getting most of his meals at the club, that's still a gap in cash that Dean can't quite reconcile. And clothes. The jeans Sam's wearing, the jacket, the boots, none of which he had before this, even at Goodwill prices, would still be another expense Sam had to cover.

And what? Sam had walked out of the club Dean had been hustling in and walked into another and got hired on the spot? That strained even Dean's pretty flexible credulity.

He stares at the laundry. Nearly every piece of clothing they own is now churning about as much as his gut.

He leaves it still on the wash cycle, and goes back to the room. He could walk, as Sam did, but cruising the streets will take less time.

Or so he thought. But twenty minutes later he is coming up with all new and very creative curses for the City of Atlanta. What total fucking moron designed a city where the entire downtown not only was made up of one way streets, but where every other street was named Peachtree-fucking-something-or other?

He finally pulls over where a group of guys are hanging out outside a little corner bar. "Hey, kind of lost," he says. "Help a tourist out?"

One of them comes closer to the car and Dean swears he's --- there was only one word for it -- sashaying. "Well, sure, honey. You want the guided tour or just directions?"

Blond and young, maybe a couple of years younger than Sam, and Dean takes another look around and wonders how he's missed this while driving.

Oh, yeah. One way streets named Peachtree. He grins anyway. Flirting he can do, although this is a little more of a challenge than usual, but still. "Directions for now," he says. "Supposed to meet my brother at a club, only I forgot the name and we’re just visiting."

"There are more like you?" the blond says, obviously pleased. "Well, welcome to Atlanta. So, what kind of club?"

"Uh…private. I think, it's around here somewhere. He walked from our hotel?"

His tour guide leans into the open window of the car. "That doesn’t narrow it down much. There's plenty of "private" clubs around here, you know?" he grins. "Dancing? Drinking? Or bathing?"

Great. "Drinking…mostly," Dean says. "It has bouncers -- I'm supposed to give…uh my name. Owner's name is Greg."

The blond chews on that and then stands up. "Not ringing any bells. Hang on, I'll ask. Your brother, is he older, younger?"

"Younger. College," Dean says and waits while the guy talks to his friends. He comes back a minute letter with a brunet, who looks a little warier and not quite as friendly.

"Your brother?" is the first thing he asks.

"Yeah. Look, I'm not from around here I just got in town -- he's working a club, as a bouncer, and I'm supposed to meet him. I just can't remember the name of the club. You may have even seen him," Dean says feeling exasperated and digs into his wallet. Jesus, the last picture he has of Sam is from his high school graduation and he stares at it for a second, noting the changes before passing it over. "He was wearing jeans -- tight jeans," he adds figuring it might make a difference with this crowd. "White t-shirt, brown leather jacket, maybe an hour or so ago."

The brunet relaxes a little but not much, although now he seems less wary of Dean in a weird way. "I haven't seen him tonight but he looks familiar," the guy says and waves another man over and shows him the picture. He gives Dean a hard look and then hands the picture back. "You might try The Hex. It's a mile or so, that way…I think he was there last night…" He looks like he wants to say more.

"The Hex?" Dean repeats and actually writes down the directions since apparently getting there is going to take some maneuvers not unlike trying to navigate a maze. "Thanks, so…am I underdressed?" he asks of his blond admirer, who only laughs at him.

"I'd say you're overdressed," he says and cocks his head. "It's a bathhouse, hon. If it's not your thing, come on back over here and I'll buy you a drink."

"I'll keep it in mind," Dean says and gives his new friend a broad smile that fades the minute he pulls away from the curb.

He is not freaking out about this. Caught off guard, yes, but not freaking, and okay, so yeah, he completely missed the fact that apparently Sam had found them a place to stay in the middle of what was apparently Atlanta's thriving gay community which did not bother Dean for any real reason other than his brother had been able to find it in, oh, about ten seconds flat.

Bouncer in a bathhouse? What, Sam broke up rowdy pool fights?

He isn't naïve either, and the churning in his stomach increases a notch. Bathhouses have a certain reputation and Dean isn't sure how to fit his brother into what he does know, at all.

The Hex doesn't look like any club Dean had ever been to. The parking lot is relatively full, but the entrance is simple in a bland two story building. He takes a few steps up, under a canopy covered door, glances at the discreet sign stating age limits, and opens the door.

Stepping inside is like stepping into a sauna. The lobby and desk are also simple, the decorating minimal, the air humid and damp despite the ceiling fans lazily dissipating the muggy air. Potted ferns and palms. The check-in desk is set behind a sliding glass panel, like in a doctor's office.

The guy behind the desk pulls the glass back and gives Dean a blinding smile -- he should be a model for toothpaste commercials -- and a thorough checking over. "Welcome to Hex," he says. "Are you a member?"

"Uh, no. New in town."

He's unfazed. "Well, we have a twenty-four hour guest membership if you want to check us out. Which can be applied to any of our other membership packages -- at any club, anywhere."

"Oh, more?" Dean asks.

"Sure, Phoenix, LA, San Francisco, Cleveland, Columbus and New Orleans," the guy says.

"Uh, actually. I'm looking for someone?" Dean says. "He's supposed to be working here? Sam? Couple of inches taller than me, skinny, dark hair, green eyes?"

The guy looks at him blankly and shrugs. "Not ringing any bells," he says although the way he keeps his gaze firmly fixed on Dean's face is a little strange. "But you can get a guest pass and look around," he offers.

"Thanks," Dean says and hands over the whopping five dollars the pass cost him. "Hey, uh, is Greg around, the owner?"

The guy hesitates for just a second and then picks up the phone. "I'll check. Your name?"

"Dean --" and the guy is turning away, closing the glass before Dean gets his last name out, which was probably better because he isn't sure Sam is using their last name. Apparently last names are not all that important here.

The attendant makes his call and flicks the glass back open. "Greg's unavailable at the moment, but he said to make yourself comfortable, have a drink in the lounge. Locker and changing room are to your left, towels and supplies outside the showers, lounge is to the right and down the hall."

He hits a button and the door from the lobby to the interior of the club clicks open on an automatic lock that reminds Dean uncomfortably of the doors at the jail.

He is still not freaking out, even when his eyes pan the open room which holds, not surprisingly, a good-sized indoor pool. Steam rises from the surface and it's occupied by a dozen or so guys, in the water, on the sides, and with some relief Dean notes that all of them are wearing swim trunks -- or at least what passes for them. He smiles at the couple of whistles he gets and heads right, eyes raking over the signage. Okay, so the pool room requires proper bathing attire, towels are required in the halls. Shoes must be worn in the gym.

The litany of clothing requirements makes it seem more like a kindergarten than a men's club -- and Dean is using that term lightly. A couple of the guys in the pool he isn't sure quite qualify as men, or even legal, despite the 18+ requirement on the sign in the lobby.

His relief when he hits the lounge is as noticeable as the change in the air from humid to comfortable. Everyone is dressed -- a couple of guys with their shirts off does not freak him out, even if one of them is the bartender. The selections are on the slim side, but Dean gets a beer, tells the bartender he's waiting for Greg and finds himself a comfortable leather stool in the corner and talks to the bartender a little, about the club, the area…disarming and curious.

He gets approached twice, friendly, and he returns the friendliness but just tells his would-be suitors he's waiting for someone and really, really hopes Sam walks through the door any second now.

But the place isn't sleazy, although it isn't posh; it looks like a cross between a doctor's waiting room and someone's living room furnished with thrift store rejects. The clientele aren't here for the décor.

After twenty minutes of chatting with the bartender, though, it's pretty clear there's no real reason for the club to have a bouncer either. There's no dancing, there's a three drink limit…

He's about hit the limits of his patience and is planning to go look for Sam when a tall, well-built, middle-aged man comes in, takes one look around and makes straight for Dean. He's wearing loose drawstring pants and a tank t-shirt like Sam's that doesn't fit nearly as tightly. He offers his hand and Dean takes it automatically. "I'm Greg. I understand you are looking for Sam?" he says, cautious smile on his face.

"Yeah. New in town…told me to meet up with him here."

"Well, have you had the tour? We've got a wide range of facilities and services," Greg says and Dean feels a tightening in his spine on the "services" part.

"No. Looks like a nice place, but I'm really here just to see Sam," Dean says. He can be polite and unrevealing too.

Greg eyes him, head to toe, and not in a way that made Dean feel like he's being flattered. "Well, he's going to be occupied for a bit yet, but I'll let him know you're here. In the meantime, Please. Take advantage of the sauna or the steam room. Relax a little," Greg says.

"Thanks. I uh…" Dean flounders for a moment, not sure how far to push this, not sure he wants to know for sure what he's already suspecting is true. What he really wants to do is frog march Greg to wherever Sam is and haul his little brother out of here. "Sam wasn't specific about the arrangements," he says finally and grits his teeth, but he can do this. If he can successfully impersonate a cop or an FBI agent he can certainly imitate a guy who….

He pulls his wallet carefully and watches Greg's eyes narrow but he only pulls out a couple of ones to tip the bartender, but he's got Sam's cash in his wallet and Greg can see it.

"Ah, well, Sam will handle it," Greg says blithely.

Dean smiles, his best, making it reach all the way to his eyes. "Cool. Buy you a drink?" he offers and watches Greg relax even more.

He's not sleazy like a pimp should be and still Dean would like to throttle him, right after he kills Sam or maybe even before.

Greg finishes his drink and checks his watch, picks up the bar phone and makes a call before smiling at Dean. "How about I walk you up?" he offers and Dean slides off his stool like he does this every day.

Greg leads him back through the pool area, mouthing off the spiel like Dean's a corporate client looking to bankroll the whole place and he nods and smiles and despite the seething anger/fear/totally-freaking-out now feeling in his gut, he manages to notice that no matter what he thinks or suspects, the club is just a club, like a gym with more water, most of it open and well lit and Jesus, he really doesn't want to think too hard about what kind of "private" party Sam is working.

Greg leads him up narrow stairs and past a door that's locked and marked "Private" and Dean's a little startled at the change because pretty obviously somebody's put more money and a better decorator to work. Guys move between the rooms, none of them wearing much of anything but towels or thin, thigh length robes and there's more kissing and fondling going on than in a roomful of teenagers with no chaperones.

The room Greg leads him to is a better grade of locker room, really, and Greg introduces him to a guy named Markos who is about Sam's height but a hundred pounds heavier and every bit of it muscle, which Dean has no problem confirming because Markos isn't wearing anything but a scrap of cloth around his hips and a whole lot of baby oil. "Markos will get you set up…either in a private room or you can watch a bit, get you in the mood," Greg says with an obvious look at Dean's crotch.

Dean forces a smile and glances between them then notices that he and Greg are pretty much the only two guys around wearing anything more than towels or the short robes, and Markos looks like he's getting impatient about something.

Dean reaches down and peels off his shirt, and Markos smiles and turns around to pull a towel off the rack in the corner.

"You can store your personal effects here," Markos says and his voice is a lot higher than Dean expected, but he opens a small locker and hands Dean a key to it on a chain. Dean slips it around his neck with his amulet and Greg leans in to pick up the other necklace.

"Interesting piece," he says but his hand rests against Dean's skin and Dean absolutely does not flinch but he meets Greg's eyes and he's absolutely aware that Greg doesn't entirely trust him or his motives and Dean's half-ready to just demand to see his brother, except he doesn’t think Markos is actually here just to hand out towels. Maybe the club does need bouncers, and Dean finds himself taking a harder look at Markos, wondering if he could take him without getting his teeth rearranged. Markos sees him looking and grins and struts a little and Dean just wants to kick him in the nuts, but he smiles.

"Thanks," Dean says and pulls back enough so he can unbuckle his belt and toe off his shoes.

Greg drops his hand. "So, how did you meet Sam?"

Dean leaves his wallet in his jeans pocket as he slides them off and wraps his belt around the denim, putting them in the locker underneath his shirt and shoes. Again the urge to tell them Sam's his brother rises but he's not entirely sure of this whole gig or what Sam's said and the whole thing has bugs crawling up his spine. "Oh, you know, hanging out, just talking. New in town," Dean says with a tight smile and pulls off his boxers, totally glad he isn't prone to blushing because Greg can't quite keep his eyes on Dean's face. He takes the towel from Markos and wraps it around his hips and almost rolls his eyes when he finds the little Velcro closure.

"Sam is too. He's been making friends quickly," Greg says.

Dean shrugs. "He's a friendly guy. Can I see him now?"

Greg smiles and steps back and Dean doesn't like his smile and he's not sure what the deal is, except he does, only Greg's working something else.

"Certainly…you never said. Private or observation?"

Dean isn't quite sure what he means, because the extent of his knowledge about bath houses kind of stopped at the pool. "Whichever Sam likes," he says because while he's convinced his brother is doing something incredibly stupid, to the point that Dean can't even really make himself believe it, whatever he's doing isn't likely to get him killed (unless Dean kills him) or get him arrested (although Dean's pretty sure there's more than a misdemeanor in all this).

Something in Greg's face changes and softens and the suspicion that's been hovering around his eyes and the set of his mouth fades. "Oh, Dean…you should have just asked him out," he says with an indulgent chuckle and looks at Markos. "Room 12…it should be ready by now. Enjoy yourself," he says and he's gone and Dean is left following Markos down the hall to room that's still small and consists of a bed and a small bathroom with a shower, a side table, and a curtained window that Dean realizes can't look anywhere but into the room next door.

"I'll be in the changing room if you need anything," Markos says with a leer and Dean just gives him a tight smile and waits until he closes the door.

Ready or not, Dean can smell it under the air freshener and the smell of clean sheets and the dampness in the bathroom. There's a basket on the bedside table is filled with individually wrapped condoms and small tubes of lubricant, packages of wipes, but Dean can smell the sex in the room without even breathing deeply.

He stares at the curtain for a long time and notices the switch on the wall and the intercom and closes his eyes before reaching for it. He's not ready to touch the curtain yet.

The intercom system is expensive, the sound clear, no crackle. They could almost be in the room with him. There's nothing telling except the sound of harsh breathing and the unmistakable sound of flesh on flesh and the wet sound that Dean knows perfectly well is somebody's mouth on somebody's dick and he's not sure he wants to know any more than that.

Except he does, mostly because he's pissed off and angry and so thoroughly confused about all of this he only wants to get more angry so he can deal with it without any kind of reasonable approach whatsoever.

The curtains work from both sides, but the other side is wide open and it takes a moment for Dean to sort out in his head what he's seeing, even though he knew what he would see before he ever took off his shirt.

But he knows Sam; he knows every muscle in the back he sees at first. He knows the bruise over Sam's hip is just a few days old, from getting knocked on his ass by something that looked like a dog but wasn't. He knows the scar on his lower left forearm is from Chimera in Tulsa when Sam was twelve.

Sam's up on his hands and one knee, his head bent low over a man's crotch.  And the guy beneath him is lying on his back and digging thick, blunt fingers into Sam's skin, to pull himself up so he can suck and lick at Sam's hard cock like he's lapping at a hamster bottle. Sam's face is distorted from the thick, dark red dick pushing its way past his lips and into his throat. The muscles of his arms and along his shoulders are tense and tight from holding himself up, the veins in his forearms stark and pronounced under the tanned skin.

Dean knows the way Sam's hair falls over his face when he bends his head, and how it curls at the nape of his neck. He knows the reason Sam's foot is on the floor instead of kneeling on the bed is because sometimes his left knee stiffens up on him if he kneels too long because he wrenched it badly when he was seventeen and it's given him trouble ever since.

What he didn't know was that his brother had or would have another guy's dick in his mouth, or that he could or would make those kinds of sounds when someone wrapped their lips around his dick, or that he'd let some total stranger stick their fingers up his ass while they sucked him off.

And he really doesn't want to know what Sam's face looks like when the total stranger obviously hits the right combination of sucking and finger-fucking, but it's happening, because Sam tenses up and lifts his head, jerking  his hips and pulling his dick from the guy's mouth. Sam trembles when he moves a hand to grip himself, squeezing his cock. The guy lifts his head to watch between Sam's legs but is still finger-fucking Sam hard with three fingers and muttering, almost commanding Sam to come on him. And Sam does, coming so hard he shoots spunk all over the guy's stomach and his dick, which is hotter than anything Dean's ever seen, only to instantly have the flare of desire and lust quenched by the pervy jerk still fucking his brother with his hand.

Dean never, ever wanted to hear a total stranger who looks old enough to be Sam's father say, "That's it, baby. Cover me up with your cream." He could have gone his entire life without ever hearing that said at all, much less to his little brother.

Sam bends his head again to finish off his trick before he's even stopped dribbling come, only to have the guy's hand slap down hard on his ass. Then the guy is reaching for the basket by the bed and Sam's easing over and onto his back and Dean pulls his gaze back and turns off the intercom before he punches through the Plexiglas or busts into the room like he would if something, anything else was threatening his brother.

In his head Dean can still hear Sam's harsh breathing when he came, the little sound in his throat, that sounded strangled and sexy and Dean's hard under the towel before he even realizes it's his own breathing that's so harsh in his ears. Without the intercom he can still hear them, but it's muffled and the words don't make sense, but the steady thump and bump of a bed against a wall tells him more than he wants to know and the not so subtle basket of condoms that's identical to the one in this room does not actually reassure Dean completely when it's his brother that's getting fucked. The curtain is in his hand but he manages only a glimpse before dropping it again and the sheer flare of rage makes his hard-on just back off and wait for a better time.

Dean sits on the bed and fingers the key on its chain around his neck, tangled with his amulet, and actually contemplates leaving. He is pissed off that Sam has done this. And pissed off that he hadn't even known Sam was capable of this, because it is pretty fucking obvious that it isn't his first time and three days does not a perfect whore make.

Pissed off too because he really thought he had a handle on how fucked up their lives were and how fucked up he and Sam were, separately and collectively. He is wronger than wrong about that, because this is a level of fucked-up-edness that probably belongs in the Guinness Book of World Records.

It might have been ten minutes or an hour before there’s a knock on the door, and Dean stares at it for a long moment before getting up to open it.

Sam has cleaned up, his hair damp around his face, he doesn't smell of another guy's come, and the short towel is snugged tight around his skinny hips, just barely covering his dick. He doesn't look surprised to see Dean at all; no shock in his eyes and no apologies or guilt either. He pushes past Dean and goes to the window, pulls the curtain back and Dean catches a glimpse of a couple of guys cleaning the room and changing sheets. Sam pulls the curtain closed again and Dean closes the door.

Dean doesn't know what to say and he waits for Sam to say something, to do something other than lean against the wall with his hands tucked behind his back and his damp hair and oiled skin, smelling of baby wipes and sweat.

Dean would settle for defiance, even indignation, accusations, explanations. But there is nothing to explain and Dean doesn't actually have to watch Sam take money from some guy to know what he was doing.

He knows why, too, but not how, and he isn't sure he wants to know how Sam knows about this club or this life but other than punching him out just to get a reaction from him it's the only place to start. "So Greg says you've made a lot of friends. You know him? Old boyfriend?" Dean asks and can't keep the edge out of his voice.

"No," Sam says. "Friend of a friend. From Stanford -- well, San Francisco," he says and Dean sucks on his tongue to keep from saying something incredibly cruel or stupid and just nods instead, but of course it doesn't help.

"So, I guess you were studying things besides pre law," he says. "Looks like you aced those lessons too, if your little performance in there was anything to go by. Straight A’s in cock sucking, Sammy."

He doesn’t mean to be that vicious, but it comes out and it's not even that Sam would do guys so much as that he'd let them pay him for it, and Dean's never really felt that way about whores before, always figuring they had reasons, that they were a little sad and broken as were the people who paid them for their services. "At least you aren't selling it on the street."

Sam hasn't dropped his gaze or said anything, doesn't flinch at Dean's words or his tone. In fact, Dean's not sure he even recognizes his brother at the moment, despite the familiar face and body.

And he hasn't seen that hollow, empty look in Sam's eyes since the night Jessica died, and even then it hadn't lasted long before the anger had come up.

"I did once or twice," Sam says and his voice is steady, even: he sounds way more in control than Dean feels at the moment.

"Oh, really? Dropped to your knees in an alley for some scaggy old guy?"

"Something like that, except he wasn't that old."

"And decided you like it?"

"No, I nearly got my ass kicked…" Sam says. "But some other guys stepped in--"

"You nearly got your ass kicked? By a scaggy guy in an alley?"

Sam's eyes flash. "A scaggy guy with a taser who'd been rolling prostitutes in the area. Sorry, I'm not sure Dad's training covered how to fight back when you're being electrocuted," he says.

"Yeah, well, Dad didn't teach you to take money for sucking dick, either!" Dean snaps out.

"No. he didn't," Sam says and pushes off the wall. "You know what else he didn't teach us, Dean? How to hold a regular job. Something other than waiting tables for minimum wage. How to make a living that doesn't involve hustling pool or scamming credit cards, or rooking people on fake psychic scams or donating to charities that don't exist. He didn't teach us how to live in one place long enough to be able to establish real credit so we could rent an apartment or fill out a tax return, or get a phone installed or electricity hooked up that didn't require a huge deposit, or God forbid, open a checking account that actually has money in it."

Dean stares at him and then moves closer, keeping his hands to his sides so he won’t punch Sam out, kick his ass down the hall, and then take on Markos too. "And so what? Going to college wasn't enough? You think this is 'normal', Sam? You didn't want to wait tables so you became a whore? Jesus, Sam, how much money did you need? You had a full scholarship! That's what you told us."

"I guess you weren't listening, then," Sam says. "Full scholarship means tuition and a book allowance, Dean. Not room, not board. In San Francisco. They let me advance a semester to cover a room but I had to make up the difference."

"And you couldn't get a loan like every other college kid?" Dean demands

Sam snorts out a breath. "On what? With what? Loans require collateral or at least an established credit history -- which I didn't have. Or a parent to guarantee a loan. Which I also didn't have," Sam says flatly. "Not that they'd have taken Dad's guarantee even if he'd been willing to try, but he wasn't. And no, waiting tables and going to school wouldn't have covered it…didn't... because I tried," Sam says and then pushes past Dean to go to the bathroom and opens the undersink cabinet and pulls out a bottle of water.

This isn't what Dean's mad about but he makes himself listen, waiting for Sam to try and justify this, only he's not. Sam offers him a bottle of water and after a second Dean takes it, and uncaps it, and pretends it's Jack Daniels or beer or, at the moment, drain cleaner, anything that would make this all seem like a really bad dream.

"You don’t have to do this," he says finally and he should have said it first, and he struggles with both his anger and…the other feelings wrapped around this that he's not entirely sure what to do with. Sam sighs and sits on the bed and then leans back.

"I know, but it seemed like the quickest way," he says.

Dean stares at him and thinks of his three days in jail and what Sam's been doing for three days, or nights, and just gets pissed off all over again. "A thousand bucks, almost? You must be a really good lay, Sammy," he says and the flash is in Sam's eyes again and he sits up.

"Yeah, well, I fuck better than I play pool, so I guess it all works out," Sam says, and balances his hands out like he's weighing something. "Get a job, have fun…" he says, only he's pissed off now too and Dean flings the bottle down, sending water all over the floor and shoves Sam back on the bed with a hand on his chest, fast enough that Sam looks stunned; and Dean takes a lot of satisfaction from that.

"You don't get to be all self-righteous and take the high ground," he snarls. "You fucking hypocrite. Stay out of trouble, Dean…taking people for their money. What's this, then, Sam? What's the charge and fine and bail for prostitution? Slap on the wrist? Blow a cop? Did you look that up on your trip to the library or did you just do a lawyer and let him give you statutes and limitations instead of talking dirty to you?"

He sees it then in Sam's face, in his eyes, but it's only there for a second and Dean's not sure if it's guilt or shame or what it is, but he doesn't like it or how it makes him feel and he gives Sam another hard shove in the chest before standing up. "Let's go," he says before he says something he'll regret, or worse, something he never will.

Sam rolls off the bed and there's a flush on his chest and glint in his eye that's hard and cold and he shakes his head. "No. Because this doesn't change anything. We still need the money."

"Bullshit. We can be three states away before anyone knows we've skipped. It's a misdemeanor," he sneers again.

"You've already entered your plea," Sam says, like it actually means something.

"Well, I changed my mind," Dean says and he's got his hand on the door. "We're not talking about this any more, Sam. Meet me at the car."

He leaves while Sam's still staring at him and stalks down the hall and almost gets lost but then he finds the locker room and jerks the key from around his neck so hard the chain snaps and leaves a burn on the back of his neck. He checks his wallet first and the cash is all there. So the place is legit, and that jerks a bark of laughter from him that leaves bile in his mouth and a thickness in his throat. It's almost three hundred dollars. Dean does not want to think about how many guys Sam did to get that kind of cash or what he did with them but he's pretty sure it wasn't just blow jobs.

He gets dressed quickly and just as he's zipping up his pants, Markos shows up and Dean tosses the locker key to him.

"That was fast…" Markos says with a knowing glint in his eyes and Dean tightens his fists for a fraction of a second before he shrugs.

"Well, the room's booked for an hour," Markos says and glances down the hall… and Sam hasn't shown yet.

Dean doesn't even know if Markos is saying something other that what he actually said, but he stops thinking about it mostly because he really wants to hit something. He manages not to actually punch Markos in the face but he does shove him and hooks a leg around a muscled calf and Markos goes down with a satisfying thump. "It's my hour," he says, and my brother and then heads out before Markos can decide whether or not to actually do anything about it. He blows past the saunas and the pool and makes it outside and almost punches his car except right now it's the only thing he's sure he loves.

Fifteen minutes pass and Sam doesn't show and another five slip by before Dean heads back inside, only the guy at the desk isn't nearly as friendly, and he passes Dean's five back to him. "Your memberships been revoked," he says. "You can leave or I'll call the cops and we will press charges." He sounds defiant and sure and Dean doesn't believe him because Greg is running a fucking whorehouse out of his crappy club.

"Then you call whoever and tell Sam to get his ass down here," Dean says and the guy shakes his head.

"I pick up the phone and the cops will be here in five minutes. We don't want any trouble."

Which is closer to the truth, but the fact that the club operates at all means either the cops are too stupid or are looking the other way deliberately and maybe free blow jobs for the boys in blue isn't such a stretch. "Fine. Then you tell Sam that I'm out of here in an hour. His choice," he says and stomps out, doesn't wait, and gets in his car.

He gets lost trying to find his way back to the hotel.

I'm calling out from the deep ends of my bones
Time says nothing back but I told you so
I told you so

Still waters rising in my mind
Black and deep, smoke behind my eyes
Last night I could not sleep at all
I hallucinated that you were in my arms

To be in your heart I failed my own
Love says nothing back but I told you so
I told you so
God Says Nothing Back Lyrics ~ The Wallflowers

Part Two

Dean can't honestly say that he's surprised that Sam isn't there, even though there's still fifteen minutes on the hour he gave him. The drive clears his a head a little, but only a little and he stares at their room, notices the maid has been in, and he's torn between wanting to find a bar and get seriously trashed or trashing the room. In the end, he starts packing up their stuff because hour or no hour, the minute Sam gets back they are out of here just as fast as Dean can get them on the road.

Shoving stuff into his bag he realizes most of their clothes are missing and remembers where he left them. Miracle of miracles they are still in the washers and he takes both loads and dumps them in the dryer together and just the stupid normal necessity of doing laundry lets him back off his anger a little more.

It's not the sex, he reminds himself. Sam can fuck whoever he wants and he's got no illusions about Sam's innocence in that department. He knows when and how and who Sam lost his virginity to at the ripe old age of sixteen because Sam couldn't keep it to himself and certainly not from Dean even though he never said a word. Just a smug, shit-eating grin on his face and an entirely weird -- to Dean anyway -- wonder in his voice whenever he talked about girls after that, for weeks. Dean had teased him mercilessly about being a late bloomer even though he'd only been a month shy of sixteen himself when he'd lost his own. But he doesn't remember getting all that calf-eyed and stupid about girls. Or maybe he just didn't have anyone to notice and when Dean was sixteen and Sam eleven, Sam hadn't even been sure girls were of the same species.

He doesn't care if Sam likes guys, either. Girls, guys, both at the same time, for all Dean cares. He's just surprised because he didn't know. Sam has shown so little interest in anyone, girl or guy, for months now, that Dean’s wondered if his brother is still grieving for Jess (which he is, Dean knows he is) or if he's picked up some weird college campus Christian vibe about celibacy and wouldn't that be a huge waste of free tuition? But obviously not.

It's the sex and the money that's making him so crazed, and the fact that Sam pretty obviously doesn't mind other people watching him have sex for money.

Dean kicks the dryer and leaves a noticeable dent in the front but it keeps working. He finds himself pacing the small, humid room, sternly reminding himself that having to pay damages for breaking things is not going to help their situation at all, isn't going to get Sam back any faster, or get them the hell out of this sinkhole of a town any quicker.

The humidity of the room reminds him of the club and, really, he wishes he had hunted down Greg and beaten his face in, because Dean knows the slime has to be taking a cut of what Sam is making; and he feels a little sick wondering if that oh-so-proper, buffed-up, businessman-pushing-middle-aged, smarmy-ass is taking it out in trade. Because the way he'd been checking Dean out said he totally would, the fucking bastard. And if he's looking at Dean like he's the blue plate special what does he see when he looks at Sam?

…Sam with his long legs and his narrow hips, and eyes that seem to look through you instead of at you and Dean tries to shut it down, to not even think of how his brother looks (and he looks hot, whispers the niggling voice) because being aware of his own good looks is one thing. Being aware of his brother that way is something else entirely.

He leans against the wall and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes to close out the images but they won't go away and the churning in his stomach is back, only moving lower -- and he doesn't get it. He's seen Sam naked or half -dressed a thousand times because there's no way to avoid it, living like they do. And in the dozens of time he's had Sam under his hands with little or no clothing on while he's bandaged and patched him up, how has he never noticed that Sam has gone from being kind of gangly and skinny and awkward to slim and broad shouldered and graceful? That under the layers and long sleeves Sam wears almost everywhere, even in bed, is muscle and sleek skin and a California tan he hasn't quite lost yet? That his mouth, which Dean only notices when Sam's frowning (most of the time) or smiling (not as often but all the more heart stopping when he does it that Dean tries to put a smile there as often as he can) is curved and full and, Jesus, he’s only ever noticed and appreciated that kind of flirty pout on women.

Until now, until then, and he can't shut out the image of Sam's mouth wrapped around that guy's prick, cheeks hollowed and throat working; and Dean's dick lurches in his jeans at how fucking deep Sam had taken a total stranger.

He presses his hands harder into his eyes until they spark white and black and then pulls them away. He takes a couple of deep breaths and tells his dick to calm the fuck down. Maybe it is hot to think of a guy -- of anyone, woman or man -- deep-throating his dick that way but not his brother. Not his little brother, the baby of the family who's not so much a baby anymore. Who's a full-grown man, in fact. One who can vote and drink and get drafted and make his own decisions even when they are completely fucking stupid ones. It's a weird kind of disconnect to think of his brother and sex in the same thought, like parents and sex or old people and sex and yet the connection keeps trying to get made in ways Dean never thought it would or should.

The theump-theump of the dryer starts grinding on his nerves as he stares at the bare industrial walls of the hotel laundry room, and the sound reminds him too much of the thumping in hotels he's heard for years. The solid rock of a bed against thin walls in dozens of small towns and cheap hotels where local lovers go to get their rocks off.

A much younger Sam had heard it too and asked Dean what it was, and at twelve Dean had already known what was going on in the next room and gave Sam the same answer their father gave Dean when he'd asked. "Playing ball, Sammy," Dean had told him and thumped a rubber ball off the wall in perfect counterpoint to the sound beyond.

A few years later Sam had asked again, brow furrowed at the rhythmic, muffled noise and the sound of voices and Dean hadn't known what to tell him, had only turned the TV up louder.

At fourteen Sam had figured it out, and he'd been slyly amused and still embarrassed but he'd asked Dean if they were still playing ball and Dean didn't even remember then, the conversation from years before. But Sam had that look on his face like he knew something and Dean had grinned and listened and whispered, "Yeah, Sam, they're playing hard ball," which had made Sam roll over and laugh like he rarely did.

It had become a joke, something that could crack them both up, that their father had never really understood. But the sight of his two sons laughing over something, even if it bewildered John Winchester, was one of the few things that could still make their father smile.

And there it was, all tangled up, just like now; that two strangers going at it another room could make Sam and Dean laugh in broad daylight, or under their blankets. But a year later, Sam had been embarrassed to be caught jacking off in the dark to the same sound, before he was even entirely sure what a man and a woman actually did together that produced such sounds.

Sex education hadn't been something their father had taught Sam either, not until after the fact, and he'd been more exasperated than informative, like he hadn't even noticed that Sam had grown up so much or that he even had time to notice girls, much less have sex with one. Sam had probably been the only guy on the planet who’d actually learned about sex in health class.

Sam's still not there when Dean goes back to the room, and he heads over to the convenience store, picks up a twelve pack, and wishes he could just leave, that it was even in him to do it, but it isn't, never has been. Not for Sam -- that's Sam's gig, to walk out and leave, like nothing Dean or John thought or needed even mattered.

He checks on the clothes after his second beer and hauls them all back even though their jeans are still a little damp. He separates his clothes from Sam's and dumps Sam's on the end of his bed while he folds his own and drapes his jeans over the chairs and the shower rod to finish drying and manages to finish off half the beers by midnight.

And Sam is still not back.

By two a.m. he's drunk enough not to care, and tired enough not to worry, but not so tired or drunk that he can stop thinking about any of it.

I'll get you out. Sam said when Dean had gotten his phone call after being arrested, because who else was he going to call?

"I don't think I'm going to be able to talk my way out of this one," Dean admitted, because really, there were maximum security prisons that were less impressive than the Fulton County jail.

"I know. I'm already checking. I'll get you out…"

"I'm okay, Sam," he'd said it then because Sam had that tone in his voice that had embedded itself in Dean's brain since Sam was, like, seven and afraid. It was as automatic as breathing to reassure him. "It was just a game of pool."

"I'm not worried about the charges," Sam said. "I'll get you out as fast as I can."

And Jesus, Dean realizes, Sam probably decided then, right then, how he'd do it even while he was figuring out what he needed to do. Reverse the situation -- and what would Dean have done? Even with the beer and the heat in the room, he feels a chill. Not that he thinks Sam can't take care of himself -- and he can -- but Dean feels the gut-clenching fear rise up at the thought of Sam in that jail, the same fear he'd heard in Sam's voice. If Sam had been the one in jail, is there anything Dean wouldn't have done to get him out? Lie, steal, knock over a liquor store, pawn every gun he owned, sell his car?

Even that. Pawn the title at the very least and then worry about getting it back later.

Sam has nothing. What he owns fit in his knapsack or in the single box in the trunk of the car. He lost nearly everything in the fire, had lost everything including Jessica, his whole life…

He owns exactly as much now as he'd owned when he left for college. Clothes, a few weapons…himself.

Maybe it's the beer, or the fact that it's oh-dark hundred and Sam still isn't back, that makes Dean look around at the room and remember how much he hates to be alone. Not by himself, because sometimes even he wants nothing and no one. But to be alone in a place where he knows no one and there's only the job and nothing else (and right now he doesn't even have that) isn't a state of affairs he likes or wants.

Alone without his father's taciturn but still familiar face. Without Sam's face, angry or not. And it's not that he can't do it, only that he hates it. At the worst times, there's still places he can get back to, people he knows and who know him, be they gun dealers or the scattered and few fellow hunters, fellow seekers. He can do it but he never wants it or goes looking for it like Sam did, all on his own.

Greener grass or more courage, Dean has no idea, has never understood why Sam would even want that. Or what it had taken to stay there, to make a life, create it from scratch.

Because no matter how angry he is, Sam is right that while they know a lot, know how to survive, to get the cash to keep moving from place to place, John Winchester never taught them how to stay in one place for more than a few months. He'd known, though. Been a grown man, a decent mechanic with job skills and at least an idea of how the rest of the country lived, what it took.

Dean has never had a checking account or a credit card in his own name, but he knows how to work the system -- but gaming it means you know you won't be anywhere long enough to get caught at it. Dean has never wanted to stay any place long enough for it to matter.

He gets up and pops another beer open and stares at the pile of clothes on Sam's bed and starts to fold them. He stares at the new ones, the tanks and another pair of jeans that are black and a size smaller than the others and aren't ripped at the knee or pocket like most of their clothes.

He sets Sam's clothes on the dresser and looks at the clock and then flops down on the bed, rolls over and turns the light off and stares at the door. He doesn't doubt Sam will come back when he's damn good and ready, because Sam's set a course now and Dean knows better than anyone how stubborn Sam can be. But he’s still tempted to go back to the club, to find a way in, only he's drunk and the last thing he needs is a DUI and Sam will be fine.

And still it's a long time before Dean actually falls asleep.

He wakes up when the door opens. He's slower than usual, but Sam's not making any effort at all to be quiet and light lances in the open door from the courtyard and the street beyond, and even so Dean's hand clenches around his knife briefly, though he doesn't move or say anything.

He can't see Sam's face because the light is behind him, but he can see the white t-shirt and the light paints silver across Sam's shoulders and arms, and along the side of his face when he turns to close the door and lock it. Dean comes awake enough to glance at the clock and it's just rolling over to 5:40 a.m.

He half expects Sam to turn on a light or go to the bathroom and be as annoying as he possibly can be because no one can hold onto anger like his little brother.

Sam does neither. Instead he comes and stands beside Dean's bed for a long moment and Dean hears rustling and the scrape of skin on cloth and then Sam tosses something at him, his wrist a flickering shadow that can embed a straight blade in a target ten feet away, but all that hits Dean is a light tap and the flutter of paper.

"We’ve got just enough," Sam says in a normal speaking voice that doesn't even sound angry although he's apparently just tossed several hundred dollars at Dean.

Dean still doesn't say anything or even move even though he knows he's not fooling Sam; Sam knows he's awake. Sam waits another five seconds and then swears softly.

"Fuck you," he says and turns away and he's stripping off his shirt and his boots and his jeans baring his back and his ass and it's all in silhouette and Dean can't stop himself from looking even though he can't really see details, but Sam moves fluidly and silently and not like he's anything but tired and maybe a little stiff. Sam leaves his clothes in a pile on the floor beside his bed, which is weird for him, and then crawls into it without pulling on anything else, which is also weird. Dean catches a glimpse of bare skin against the white sheets before Sam pulls the blankets up and puts his back to Dean.

Dean still doesn't move or speak, but he watches Sam's back and the outline of his shoulder under the blanket and hears nothing, but he knows Sam's not asleep either and probably hasn't even closed his eyes yet.

Dean closes his own and he knows it's his imagination but he swears he can hear the thump-thump-thump of a bed hitting the wall on the other side of theirs. And only when he finally starts to fall asleep again does he realize that it's really the thump of his own heart, sounding loud in his ears, like it's trying to escape his chest.

Dean wakes a few hours later and the room is dim but not black, even with the curtains drawn, because there's a transom above. He immediately glances over but Sam's really there and still asleep, although he's moved to sleep on his stomach with the blankets still pulled high. All Dean can see is the fingers of one hand on the pillow and Sam's hair.

He moves quietly and is distracted by the flutter of paper and he stares at the bills and slowly picks them up, counting as he goes and he feels a little sick when he hits the eight hundred dollar mark when Sam had said he might make a couple of hundred for the party, plus whatever.

Quietly he tucks it in his wallet and gets up and finds his shoes. He doesn't even stop for the bathroom, even though the beers really want out, and he doesn't take his car keys, just his sunglasses, and slips out of the room. He uses the bathroom in the lobby and asks the desk clerk -- a guy this time -- if there's any place to get coffee and breakfast and wonders how he missed a Starbucks a block and half away.

It's pretty crowded but the place has a whole little outside area and Dean gets a large plain coffee and, with a nod to healthy eating, some kind of pumpkin thing with icing all over it and snags the left-overs of someone's newspaper.

If he looks down the street he can see the hotel sign, everywhere else he sees buildings and trees and people and gridlocked traffic and he half wishes he'd brought his laptop but settles for the paper. Flips through the front page and first sections with an eye not for headlines, but for smaller articles, just out of habit.

None of it sinks in, really, and he nurses his coffee, then goes and gets more and fingers his wallet. Sam's guessing at the fine amount, but Dean trusts his guess. But they still need to eat and short of finding a pool or poker game somewhere, or getting really lucky on a lottery ticket, Dean knows he's going to have to pawn something. Not the title to his car, but something else to give them money to subsist on, unless he can find a job.

A pool game would be easier, and maybe he can find one if he gets out of the city and its sudden desire to be a major pain in the ass to anyone just looking for a little fun. He wouldn’t even have to tell Sam, although at this point he doubts Sam would say anything at all and if he got picked up again, he'd probably let him stew a lot longer than three days.

It doesn't really look any better in the bright light of day, but he's not as angry and the headache starting to throb in his temples has less to do with the beers he put away than some of the tension easing out of his neck and shoulders. But Sam's God-almighty righteousness about what they do and how Dean usually gets them money still rankles and aggravates, but then again, Sam being on his high horse can be reassuring sometimes because it forces Dean to reassess, now and then, if what they do really is worth it. It is, but it's easier to justify it to Sam than to himself.

He buys Sam a large coffee and gets him a less frosting-laden muffin and heads back.

Sam's not there. It takes a second for it to sink in that his bed is empty and there's humidity in the air that speaks of a shower. The stack of clothes on the dresser is slightly shorter, but the clothes from the night before are still on the floor except for Sam's boots. The bed's not made, which Sam usually does and Dean has never understood why, but it's just Sam being his weirdly, freakish, kind of haphazardly neat self. Only he didn't and hasn't.

But the rest of his stuff's still here and he didn't take the car so chances are he just went to find some coffee and breakfast for himself.

Or he's really still pissed off and not ready to face Dean yet, because Dean refuses to believe that after last night Sam's going to be even slightly ashamed or embarrassed by what he's done. Because really, what good is righteousness if you can't shove it in someone's face?

Surprise to concern to annoyance and back to a low simmering anger again, because Dean, really, really wants to blow town. And that's probably why Sam headed out, because he wants Dean to face the judge and pay his fine because that's what good, normal people who do something wrong do.

Well, fuck Sam anyway. He suddenly feels tired and grimy and strips off his shirt. He's not going to look for Sam -- his brother can sulk as long as he wants and Dean can wait him out.

There's a single clean towel left on the rack, the others kicked to the corner and that's sloppy for Sam too, but Dean needs one for a bathmat and he nudges them back over with his foot.

The pinkish brown stains register in his brain like ozone or sulfur and the first thing he thinks is that there's not much but it's enough to stain the towel and too much for Sam to have cut himself shaving.

The thump-thump-thump sound in his head gets louder and his ears feel clogged up, like everything is echoing. He leaves the water running and goes back into the room and tosses the blankets on Sam's bed back and finds more brown smears on the sheets. Still not much, so Sam's not bleeding to death obviously, but he's scraped or cut or something. There's more blood on his shirt near the bottom hem, in the back, and Sam's jeans smell of sex and sweat and the stale scent of rum and tequila but Dean can't tell if there's blood on them or not and freaks himself out by checking the seat of Sam's jeans. All the blood he can find, though, seems to be around Sam's back if his shirt is anything to go by, and it's stiff with it in spots, soaked through both sides.

He sees the smear of blood on Sam's pillow last.

Maybe a fight and for some reason Dean really doesn't have a problem thinking of Sam fighting for what virtue he's got left and a dozen scenarios play themselves through his mind before he finally comes back to the fact that Sam came back this morning under his own power, that he'd been alert enough to know Dean was awake, to fire off his shot, and had managed to get up and shower and change this morning.

He shuts down the water and grabs his keys, only to put them down again. Sam walked wherever he went, and he does anyway because Sam does not and never has had a car. Has never even shown an interest in having one even though he can get under the hood and tweak an engine as well as Dean can or John, and, Jesus, why couldn't Sam have gotten a job as a mechanic while he was at Stanford and rented his skills there?

Logically Dean knows he should just stay put and wait but he's never been very good at staying still.

It's warmer out and the traffic has eased somewhat as he heads the opposite direction from the Starbucks, confident he'd have seen Sam if he'd gone that way. Two blocks away and he knows this is just stupid, because Atlanta's not a small town and Sam could have gone anywhere.

But it looks vaguely familiar and he recognizes the bar he'd stopped by to ask directions from the night before. It's closed now, of course, but on foot and not driving he notices for the first time that the short little commercial area drops into residences on one side of the street and across the street is a park -- a big park -- right in the middle of the city. Dean's not really a park kind of guy, but it's still a huge and welcome difference from the city he's really hating on right now.

He only glances at the sign at the entrance, the historical marker, barely reading either, caught instead by the fact that even this early in the morning there're people here. Broad swatches of green, grass open to the sky, dotted here and there with full-leafed shady trees, lining the walkways that are wide enough to accommodate two mothers with strollers and two guys running at the same time. Trees or just distance shuts down the bulk of the street sounds and Dean's not that fanciful or sentimental but there's something to be said for this kind of quiet in the middle of all the noise beyond.

He doesn't really expect to find Sam here -- it's too big a place, for one thing -- and there's nothing here that he thinks Sam would need or want. There's no food vendors or cafes, there's just grass and trees and water and people with their dogs and their kids, people reading books which seems weird even to Dean because it's a weekday, a workday, for most of the rest of the world.

So, he's surprised when he does see him, spots him and picks him out from a hundred yards away, stretched out on the grass on his back, laying on the olive green hoodie he wears most of the time.

Sam's got his arms tucked under his head, and his legs stretched out, wearing his old jeans that are too baggy and the small tear above the knee has gotten wider despite Sam's attempts to fix it. But he's wearing another of the tank-style shirts, white against his skin, making Sam look less pale. There's sun full on his face and Dean can feel it too, against his back, warming his skin. Later it will make him sweat and the air will get so humid it's hard to breathe. Right now, though, it feels good and seems to deny there is ever darkness anywhere.

Sam's eyes flicker open briefly when Dean's shadow falls on him but he closes them again and doesn't move. There's tension there, subtle and creeping, and Dean ignores it when he just folds his legs to sit next to Sam. He can see the bruising on Sam's cheek and the slight swelling at the left corner of his mouth although there's no split visible to explain the blood on his pillow. He's lying on his back so whatever injury there is there can't be too serious or painful and still Dean wants to know what it is and why and he's still debating with himself on why it's so fucking hard just to ask Sam if he's okay.

"Are you going back?" Dean finally asks, pulling his knees up and staring at the pond at the bottom of the hill. He keeps his voice as neutral as he possibly can because he really doesn't want to fight about this any more and he's not sure what they were fighting about to begin with except for Sam being stupid, which isn't exactly new. Dean's got his own persistent stupid traits and he knows them. He just doesn't know all of Sam's.

Sam takes so long to answer that Dean finally looks over at him and sees Sam watching him, studying his face, like despite the simple question he's trying to figure out what Dean's really asking.

Sam's eyes meet his for a long moment before he closes them again and Dean's always thought Sam's eyes were more blue than green but just as he closes them he notices that they are really an interesting shade of green like jade or moss and maybe it’s the lighting or the green all around them. Their mother's eyes were blue but Sam doesn't know or remember that because all the pictures they have of her don't really let them see her eye color, only her smile.

"Well, since I think I broke Greg's nose, probably not," Sam finally says.

"Dude! You broke his nose? I wanted to do that, so bad," Dean says and just like that the tension breaks, even though Sam doesn't smile or laugh or do anything except take a deep breath. But it's back again a few seconds later but the tension is all on Dean. "Not that punching him out on general principle isn't good enough, but did you have a reason for breaking his nose?"

"He pushed his luck," Sam says, deadpan, and Dean glances down to see Sam watching him again.

"Point taken," Dean says and drops his head, staring at his shoelaces. "Sam…"

"Do you really want to talk about this?" Sam asks him and Dean chews on his lip for a second because the truth is he does. But he gets what Sam is asking -- that these long heart-to-hearts really do grate on Dean's nerves. He can't sustain them and he hasn't had one in so long, it's kind of pointless to start now just to find out if he still hates them.

At the same time he knows Sam's bringing it up because his brother doesn't want to talk about it, the same way he won't talk about his nightmares or give out information on the four years of his life Dean totally missed, like if Sam gives too much away there won't be anything left or it will all be gone, maybe like it never was.

He wants Dean to back off and just as perversely Dean knows he can't, or won't, because this is something else between them that's just driving them further apart, when really what Dean wants most is for them to be back the way they were.

Back when he had all the answers and Sam still thought his big brother was the coolest person ever.

Which, really, hasn't been true for a lot longer than four years.

"You didn't tell him you had a brother, did you?" Dean says, and picks at his shoelaces like they are a scab.

"You didn’t either," Sam says and Dean knows Sam is watching him but he doesn't know why. He can rationalize it all he wants but he's pretty sure last night would have gone a whole lot differently if he'd just said that at the club instead of pretending to be something he wasn't.

He's avoided thinking about it as much as he can, because yeah, he'd pretty much figured it out by the time he hit the club and certainly by the time he flashed cash at Greg to let him think he was as willing as, well, any guy to lay out money to spend a little time with Sam and get his rocks off. And telling himself that he didn't want to see Sam naked and sweaty, and hard and hot, and having sex with a total stranger isn't the same thing as actually not seeing it.

He's never thought of himself as a possessive person, which makes sense because it's not like he owns a lot, either. His car, which yes, he can be a little overly-possessive of. His music and his clothes, his guns and his books, and his freedom.

But not his brother. Not that way. Because he's always had Sam, and always would, or so he'd thought, until he didn't have him any longer. It isn't the same as owning Sam or even wanting to. Sam is just a part of him, like his arm or his eyes, something, someone, that can't be replaced and Dean always thought that Sam felt the same way, that Dean would always be first and part of him. His father had given him Sam as an infant and Dean had taken it seriously his whole life because Sam is his.

Only Sam isn't his. He'd known it the minute he showed up at Sam's apartment, the minute he'd seen Jessica. John may have given Dean his infant brother to look after but somewhere along the way Sam had taken himself out of Dean's care and into his own. It happened before he left for college, maybe even before he graduated from high school. And then he'd given himself to someone else and he hadn't asked Dean for permission, or even let him know.

And then she was killed and Dean has been trying to get back to before ever since. Sam is still his brother, but he's also a stranger, a different person, a man, and not a boy, or a kid, or a child; and Dean doesn't know if he entirely missed the transition or just hadn't wanted to see it.

But Sam is still his brother which makes all the rest harder to deal with, be it the fear or the jealousy or the completely irrational anger that Sam chose to give himself to total strangers, but not to Dean, and he doesn't know what to do about it or think about it, or even if he actually wants it so much as he just wants the choice. If they were in Philadelphia he'd make totally inappropriate jokes about the City of Brotherly Love, but they are in the south and somehow jokes about family trees with single branches seem cruel and heartless given what Sam wanted and found and lost and probably will never find again if he can even find the strength to try.

Their father never had.

Not that Dean could be 100% sure, but he could remember no time when his father had gone out or even been polite to a woman other than to thank her for his coffee refill or for bringing him another beer. He supposed there might have been times when his father had sought comfort or release, but he could summon no memories of perfume or lipstick or nights gone when John had come home smelling of sex instead of blood.

His father had never had much to say to Dean either, once he discovered sex and women, other than to remind him to be careful both with condoms and because you never knew what might be behind a mask that looked human but wasn't.

"Why didn't you?" Sam asks him and it takes Dean a few seconds to backtrack and figure out what Sam is really asking, which is totally flaky given it's all Dean's been thinking about for the last couple of minutes. But there's real curiosity in Sam's voice and he props himself up on his elbows, face wary, and for the first time he seems to be actually seeing Dean, rather than just looking at him.

"Wasn't sure what you'd told them," Dean says, which is part truth but not even close to all of it. "Wasn’t sure what I'd be walking into," he adds when Sam's brow furrows.

"So you walked into it mostly naked?"

Dean glares at him. "Fitting in," he says shortly and that almost gets a smile from Sam and Dean looks down again, where Sam's hands are spread on the grass and sees the bruising and abraded skin there at his wrists and his first reaction is to totally and utterly freak the fuck out in the flash of an instant. Only he can't move and can barely breathe until he makes his hand move to touch the bruised bone.

Sam doesn't jerk his hand away but he does sit up, and pulls his arm from Dean's reach and mirrors Dean's position with his arms around his knees, his right hand covering his left wrist but there's scrapes on the right too.

Sam is more of a stranger than Dean thought possible. "Tell me you didn't get those for me," he finally manages to get out.

Sam shakes his head, just slightly. "No. Those I got because I was stupid and pissed off and I just wanted to be done. It's not what you think," he says quickly, and Dean knows it's because of the expression on his face; that he can't hide the utter shock and horror that has completely taken up residence in his gut.

"Yeah, you get bruises like that clipping your nails," Dean spits out and knows he's gripping his knees because otherwise he is going to hit someone and Sam's the only one in reach. "And the blood on your clothes?" he grates out.

"You really don't want to know," Sam says and flops back, arms over his head, staring up at the sky again.

Dean really doesn't. "Yes, I do," he says flatly and twists around.

Sam won't look at him, but there's a dull flush on his face and he licks his lips which just does something to Dean that he can't even put words to.

"Greg has a bondage kink," Sam says and darts a hard glance at Dean. "A mild bondage kink. There was never a time I couldn't get free if I wanted, and I did," he points out like it should be obvious and then he looks away and Dean swears the guilt and shame he'd been expecting all along is right there. "I could have had you out sooner if I'd..."

If he'd agreed to do something that Sam obviously wasn't into. If he'd let the weasel-faced mother-fucker tie him up and do…whatever, sooner, and Dean knows where the extra money came from and why.

"I'm glad you didn't," Dean says and his voice is gruff because his throat is tight. "He pushed too hard," he repeats and twists further and nudges Sam's shoulder to get him to roll over, but the guilt's been replaced by stubborn and Sam elbows him back, hard.

The anger's back and Dean looms over him, on his knees. "Sam, I swear to God I'm going to kick your ass. What did he do?"

"I broke his nose," Sam reminds him.

"And he didn't have you arrested for assault?" Dean sneers. "What did he do?"

"I didn't break his nose for that," Sam says and sits up again, facing Dean, his back safely out of reach of Dean's eyes or his hands.

"Then why? He pushed…" and Dean doesn't want to think about that being more literal than a metaphor.

Sam isn't going to tell him. He doesn't want to tell him and for the first time Sam actually looks afraid. Not like he's afraid Dean may actually give him the thrashing he so obviously deserves but like there's something under all this that's more dangerous than selling his body or letting some perv tie him up and hurt him. Something that once it's out there, can't be taken back, can't be undone or recovered from, ever.

He used to be able to read Sam better. Used to be able to look at his face and just know at least half of what was running through his mind. Sometimes he still can, when they are hunting, when their lives are at stake, and each other is all they can depend on, all they really have to fight with -- who they are and what they are to each other that is more than brothers or partners or friends or…

And Dean suddenly realizes they are on opposite sides of the same chasm, only he thinks Sam got here first. He's not entirely certain of that because he doesn't know when wanting to be with Sam or wanting Sam to be with him shifted to just wanting him. It could have been in the last five minutes or the last five hours or the last five months or the nearly five years before that when Sam being gone was an ache in his chest and an emptiness in his mind that kept him up late at night or made him drink too much or get laid as often as possible, because to do otherwise left him with his own hand and the lack of Sam being there crowding his thoughts in ways it shouldn't have.

There's no way for only one of them to step off the edge of this alone and drop, because once one of them does it, they'll both fall, no matter what's at the bottom, or how far they plummet.

Sam's never been quite as eager as Dean has to drag them both into hell. Maybe even less so now because there's a good chance that despite the fact that Dean hunts and kills and loves looking into the face of hell with a certain glee and the whole complicated, adrenaline-inducing rush to dance with death, face to face as a man instead of a child, he's not sure he's ever been there. His mother's dead and he misses her still and wants whatever took her from them to be vanquished and defeated and maybe he's the best choice even over his father or Sam to actually do it.

Maybe because he's never faced it; never looked at this particular demon or hellspawn or whatever it is and had it spit the blood of someone he loves back in his face.

Sam drops his gaze and Dean can almost feel the chasm recede and Sam with it. He's not sure they'll ever find their way back here again or if they'll even try, but there's never been a gulf so wide he won't leap it for his brother, because there's never been anyone as important to him as Sam is and he's not sure he ever really knew that until now except as an excuse to do some incredibly stupid things of his own.

Only this doesn't feel stupid or even wrong, although it does feel dangerous and like they might be tempting something that holy water and Latin will never lay to rest.

It's a leap of faith that Dean doesn't actually believe he has any longer, if he ever did. Not in God or angels, because all he's ever been sure of is hell and darkness and that there are things in the shadows that will bite and claw you. But you can fight those and win. In the bright sunlight, it's harder to see the threat or the consequences because it washes everything clean and makes you drop your guard.

He should be more tender, he thinks, when he grips Sam's shirt and fists it, the fabric stretching and pulling away from Sam's chest, but he's afraid if he doesn't grab hard and fast Sam will slip away from him.

There is no way he could be prepared for how soft Sam's mouth is or how quickly he opens it, or that it would take so little a thing to bring Sam to him so much more fully. There's an awkward clash of tongues and teeth and a flinch from Sam that he recovers from quickly but Dean can taste blood, because the cut is on the inside of Sam's lip.

All Dean wants to do is soothe it and he leans further in and tightens his fist more, like he can get Sam closer, but it's own fist that's in the way, and he flattens his hand. He can feel Sam's heartbeat under his palm, totally in synch with the blood pounding in Dean's ears and Sam's just radiating heat under the thin cotton.

The fall isn't nearly as far as he thought it would be, about two feet, before Sam's back hits the grass again and Dean finds himself following him down because one of Sam's hands is hooked around the back of his neck and his other is tugging Dean down by his t-shirt.

Dean's hard enough to drill concrete even before they stop moving and even under Sam's way-too-loose pants his brother is too. There's a gap between his underwear and his shirt and Dean fits his hand right there, over the bare skin just above Sam's hip, and thinks they might be in real trouble because Sam's got his tongue in Dean's ear and Sam's teeth rake Dean's earlobe while his hand strokes over Dean's nipple through his shirt.

Dean lifts his head and has to take in more air to even speak and even so, it's hard because Sam's got that expression on his face that Dean's seen so recently, like he's going to come right now and all they've done is kiss and touch a little. Great strokes for Dean's ego and for reassuring himself he didn't make the wrong choice here at all, but not so good for them not getting arrested for public indecency.

And there's a truly horrible thought. "Sam…Sam...," Dean says and waits for Sam to focus on him. "Tell me that in your checking the local laws, you didn't trip over something that makes kissing in public illegal in this hick town?"

Sam blinks at him and his eyes are definitely more blue than green right now. "No…no. But fucking in public…that could get us in trouble," he says and he's so calm about it and so absolutely sure that Dean almost comes right then.

He groans instead and drops his head to Sam's chest. "You're still pissed off, aren’t you? And this is how you're getting your revenge," he says accusingly.

Sam's fingers ruffle through his hair. "I'm not pissed off, but it is revenge for making me listen to five months of really bad metal hair bands," he says. "Would it kill you to listen to something recorded in the last decade?"

"Probably. If this doesn't kill me first," Dean says and presses his dick against Sam's and has the satisfaction of seeing Sam's eyes glaze a little before he stretches into the pressure with his whole body that just sends an answering ripple of heat and sensation through Dean that takes his breath away. "Fuck, Sam!" Dean can only gasp out because this person underneath him is not his brother, he's not even sure he's human, because it should not be possible for the simple shift of muscles and the stretch of skin tight over Sam's throat to make him cream his jeans like he's just done.

Sam's arms are warm and firm and solid around him and he isn't sure Sam has come yet because his dick's still tenting his jeans while Dean's are damp and kind of gross and that was not what he wanted or intended at all. He slides his hand up under Sam's shirt, feeling hot skin and the faint ripple of his ribs, the hard nub of a nipple before he changes direction.

Sam's jeans are loose but the waistband of his underwear is snug against his skin. Sam's mouth finds Dean's when he pushes his hand under the elastic and Sam pulls a leg up and twists as much to give Dean better access as to at least possibly obscure the fact that Dean is about to give Sam a hand job in the middle of a public park in broad daylight.

The risk is worth it, totally, because the second Dean's hand closes around Sam's dick (and he's hard and moist and not as thick as Dean, but maybe longer, and God, his skin is so soft and the hair at the base of his dick so thick) Sam makes a sound in the back of his throat like a cross between a whimper and a growl that just gets Dean's dick all interested again.

"Easy, Easy…" Dean says against his mouth because Sam's pushing and his whimpers sound a little too loud. "Audience, Sammy, I'll get you there," he promises and Sam goes still and looks up at him intently.

"It's Sam," he says on a whisper and Dean catches the look and what's behind it even though Sam's all but shaking in his arms. He eases off, just enough for Sam to catch his breath and Dean to really understand what's happening here.

Sammy was two or eight or twelve or fourteen or even eighteen and walking out the door. Sam isn't a kid, and he's not leaving, and his girlfriend is dead, murdered right in front of him and burned alive and part of Sam will always, always wish he'd died with her. He'll sell his body or his soul for his brother but won't sell himself, or give himself away to anyone. Not even to Dean and its got nothing to do with love or lack of it and everything to do with who Sam is and what he's lost and could still lose and what he's willing to risk to get at least some of it back.

Dean strokes him firm and hard and not too fast and he covers as much of Sam's body as he can and explores his mouth almost roughly. He feels a burning in his eyes that he's glad Sam can't see and it's gone by the time he feels Sam spill over his hand. On the other side of it, Sam shudders and groans and curls up like maybe he can crawl inside Dean and hide for just a few seconds.

Dean wishes he could open his chest wide and let him.

He leaves most of the wetness on his hand inside Sam's pants but Sam doesn’t complain, only blows soft, warm breaths against Dean's neck. "We should get back," Sam says and Dean's not sure why except he wants to do more with Sam than hand jobs in the park and it’s all he can do not to lick his hand just so he knows what Sam tastes like. He also has no idea how he's even going to make it back to the hotel, but he's pretty sure it's going to require that he stop touching Sam and he doesn't want to do that just yet.

But Sam gives him a little push, a flat hand against his chest, not a shove, and rolls up. Dean pulls his t-shirt down and Sam pulls on his hoodie, zipping it and pulling it down across his hips even though it's warm, and shoves his hands in his pockets.

They barely look at each other the whole walk back. They don't speak, crossing streets and stepping around other people on the sidewalks until they get back to the hotel, taking their time.

Even as Dean opens the door, it's like the park was a dream or something more than caffeine in his coffee because the room is plain and dark and the maids haven’t been in yet and Sam's clothes are still on the floor and there's still blood on the sheets.

Sunlight makes everything look clean and simple and bright.

Sam closes the door behind him and it gets darker still, though not black. He leans against it like he knows this is a different kind of test, because all their gear is here and the Impala is parked out front loaded with the tools of their trade and this is what they do and who they are as brothers, as hunters, as the sons of John and Mary Winchester.

Dean can almost feel the chasm widening under his feet.

He steps across it before it can do more than crack open and unzips Sam's hoodie, pulling it open. Sam shrugs it off and lets it fall and reaches for Dean's t-shirt to help pull it up over his head and off.

He's never really thought of Sam as being predatory at all, but he recognizes the hunter there when Sam toes off his boots and suddenly they stop helping each other undress and just get the job done as quickly as possible, like their clothes will burst into flames if they don't, or maybe they will. It's Dean's bed they fall into, with Sam on top, all long legs and the slim hips that Dean's hands can almost but not quite span. Sam's shoulders are wide enough that he can plant his elbows on either side of Dean's head and support himself while they kiss like it's breakfast and the most important meal of the day. Then Sam's pushing down, dragging his mouth along Dean's throat and then his collarbone and across his chest.

Dean has to bite his lip and reach between them to grip himself when Sam tongues a nipple until it's wet and hard, then closes his lips around it, applying just enough toothy pressure to send a line of fire from Dean's tit to his balls. Sam bats Deans hand away from his dick and grips him, still sucking and Dean groans his name because if Sam doesn't stop, this is going to be over before it actually gets started -- again. Dean isn't even sure what he does want, although if Sam's mouth can get that much reaction from him just by sucking his nipple, the idea of what his mouth can do wrapped around Dean's dick kind of shorts out his brain.

And since he doesn't know, he asks Sam, who does know, or who at least knows more. "What do you want?"

Sam lifts his head and licks across Dean’s chin to his lips and shifts his weight.

"Fuck me."

"Oh, hell, yes." Dean's brain kind of explodes and melts to goo that can only function in a straight line, which pretty much consists of getting his dick into Sam's ass as quickly as possible.

He's completely startled to hear Sam laughing at him -- not with but at him. Sam's teeth flash in the dim light and he rolls, almost ending up on the floor as he reaches across the narrow expanse of floor between their beds to snag his jeans. Dean rolls with him, gripping his hips to keep him from sliding off the bed, and lets his eyes rove over the smooth expanse of Sam's back only to settle on the darker lines that cross his lower back and just above his ass.

Dean swears at the same time Sam give a kind of triumphant, "There!" and pulls a couple of the little tubes of lube along with a condom from the pocket of his jeans. Sam pushes back and Dean has to let him or they'll both fall but he keeps Sam from rolling over and instead traces a welt to the deeper end where the skin broke and bled. He can measure the longest of them with his thumb and forefinger, and only a couple broke skin at all. The others are just red welts, not entirely straight, but still from force enough to be swollen and raised even hours later.

Sam gives him all of five seconds before twisting around and shoving Dean back, pushing his hands to the bed on either side of his head. He kisses Dean, hard, before Dean can even think of what to say or get past his shock to get pissed and work himself into a rage again. Sam doesn't give up until Dean actually responds, kissing him back, and the pretty solid grip Sam's got on his wrists changes so that their fingers thread together. When Sam lifts his head he looks fierce and halfway to being pissed off himself. "I broke his nose," he reminds Dean again, and Dean remembers. He knows now why Greg didn't press charges.

"He deserves worse," Dean grinds out but he makes himself relax.

Sam studies his face and chews on his lip. "I didn't hit him because of that," he says quietly and Dean has to back up in his mind, because if Sam didn't knock the crap out of the guy because he'd tied him up, or because Greg had whipped or lashed or whatever he'd done to raise welts on Sam's skin…

"Then why?" he asks and lets his fingers tighten on Sam's.

He's almost afraid Sam isn't going to answer, but he also thinks there's something important here for him to know, something that isn't obvious. Sam lets him go and eases back, straddling Dean's hips but holding himself up so that his weight isn't pressed against Dean's crotch -- which would be guaranteed to derail this conversation pretty damn fast.

"Not my thing," Sam says but he's opening one of the little tubes and Dean sucks in air when Sam's warm, slick hands slide over his dick. "The bondage, the…discipline," he says and his touch is gentle but still distracting as all hell, and Dean reaches down to grip Sam's thighs and squeeze them in warning. "Never has been," he adds and he sounds apologetic and Dean has to fight to remember why he should be.

Three days in jail. "Jesus, Sam…" Dean gets out. "I'd rather still be sitting there than have that…fucker lay a hand on you. I'd rather go back and get the satisfaction of completely beating the shit out of him."

Sam's hand squeezes his dick and he leans forward, silencing Dean -- or at least changing the direction of his thoughts -- and kisses him, then shakes his head. "I didn't care about that…they don't hurt and I've had worse," he says with a quirk of his lips and yeah, in sheer severity of injury Sam's had a lot worse and some of the worst since they'd hooked back up again. He's seen more of Sam's blood in the last five months than, possibly, ever.

He catches Sam's hands and can't help looking at the bruises there. "Why then?" he prods.

"It didn't get me off. It doesn't," Sam says. "Not a turn-on at all, and that wasn't part of the deal. Greg's more a watcher than a doer, but he wanted me hard and … he was trying pretty much everything."

"What did he do, Sam?" Dean asks.

"He talked about you. He thought you were another trick -- one I really liked," Sam says and shifts over, stretching out beside Dean, with a knee across Dean's thighs and their hands still tangled and resting on Dean's chest. "That worked," he says.

Dean's missing something. "And you broke his nose because talking about me got you hard?" he asks, just to be sure. He feels kind of vaguely flattered except that in the total apple cart of weirdness going on right now, that one tastes a little more rotten than the others

"Yeah. It was like if…" Sam hesitates and Dean squeezes his hand. "It was like if he was talking about Jess," he says finally. "Just to get me off. Get himself off. It pissed me off…"

Greg doesn't even know who Dean is. Not really, and Dean feels like he's taken a hit to the chest with that. Enough that he has to take a deeper breath. Someday, he's going to get the whole story from Sam, from college on, and he's going to listen. Maybe he won't say much, but he'll know.

He rolls over and Sam makes a space for him between his legs. Dean doesn't let go of his hand. "So, I should be careful what I say when we're doing this? Because I like my nose," he says seriously.

It snaps Sam out of it, out of whatever space he goes when he's doing what he needs to do, rather than doing what he wants to. And Dean has no doubts that Sam is doing this because he wants to, maybe has wanted to for a while. He gets a quick glimpse of Sam's teeth when he smiles and another of those stretches underneath him that are probably illegal in this state, if not all but maybe one of them.

But Sam's reaching for the condom again and uses those same teeth to tear open the packet then has to pull his hand free to unroll the condom and get it on Dean's cock. Dean helps him as much as possible, but mostly he just concentrates on not coming, because however he learned it, Sam's got hands that seem made for this: steady and sure and firm. Sam catches his lower lip between his teeth when he stretches the rubber along Dean's skin and then finds another packet of lube. "You'll probably be okay…although, if you call me bitch in bed, you won't like the response," Sam tells him as he finishes, and he sounds like he's only half kidding.

Then Sam lifts his hips a little and spreads his legs and Dean's clear that Sam can pretty much call him anything he wants and Dean's not going to break anything.

Dean lifts up too and he's only got half an idea of what he's supposed to do even if he's crystal clear on where his dick's about to go. "Do I …uh…do you need…me to uh…Oh, God,…" he just sputters because Sam takes the last of the lube and presses it to his hole and that pretty dick of his is hard and curving toward his belly and Dean still hasn't tasted it.

And is that not just another thing in the growing list of things he never thought he'd think or say or even want: either that his brother's got a pretty dick or that he wants to suck it until Sam screams his name.

Sam tugs him forward and lifts a leg over Dean's left arm, and suddenly Sam's hand is curving around him and the only dick Dean actually cares about at the moment is his own. It's still awkward and kind of strange but Sam's got those long-assed legs that reach all the way around Dean's back even when he's half folded up. His thighs give Dean something to lean against and…

"Fuck…" Dean hisses out when his dick starts to sink inside Sam with almost no resistance at all, just some pressure and then the sudden give of muscle as Dean pushes. But Sam's ass stays tight and he thrusts in a lot harder than he means to. Sam only presses his head back into the pillow and lifts to meet him. Sam's fingers dig into his arm and his leg tightens across Dean's side and back, pulling him deeper.

Dean can't even breathe, his whole body is shaking at how amazing this feels and it’s not even the fucking because he's done that, lots of times. But Sam is tight and hot and the little whimper-growls he makes sound totally different when Dean's the one who's causing him to make them. He chokes and almost comes when Sam reaches for his own dick and pulls and strokes and squeezes and Dean can see himself slide into Sam's body.

Sam gives him about three thrusts to get used to the feel and the rhythm before he's asking -- demanding -- more and pulls Dean's head down, for a kiss that's wetter and hotter than his ass.

And maybe he's got a tiny, itsy-bitsy, miniscule bit of empathy for the guy he saw Sam with last night because when Sam starts to come all Dean wants is for Sam to come on him, and he pushes in harder and faster trying to catch up.

He wishes they'd turned a light on. Sam's tossing underneath him and Dean's pretty sure he's getting that spot at least most of the time, because Sam just stops stroking his now soft dick and gets his arms on the bed to better lift his ass to meet the jerk of Dean's hips. It's Dean's name on his lips just as Sam's name is on Dean's when his body finally takes the hint and just gives it all up. He can' t even catch himself when orgasm rocks his spine and sends off flares in his brain that make him blind and deaf. Everything is centered on his dick and the tight compression and the shocks that race back and forth like quicksilver after it's been shaken.

Sam's hands are shaking when he strokes across the back of Dean's skull and over his shoulders. Dean rests his head on Sam's chest and can taste the sweat there and yes, even Sam's come where it's left wet trails on his skin. He finally moves, taking the pressure off Sam's spread thighs and groans when Sam's body doesn't let him go easily. It's only the threat of losing the condom that makes Dean pull together what he's sure are the last two brain cells he has left, to hold onto it. He pulls free with a soft, slick, wet rasp of sound, like a whisper. He peels off the condom and manages to tie it off before dropping it and collapses back down with his head on Sam's belly.

Sam stretches his legs out and Dean feels his stomach flutter under his cheek, like Sam's trying to take a deep breath that he can't quite make. So he moves, not sure what he expects but it's not the laughter Sam's trying to hold back.

"You going to share the joke?" he asks and pulls himself further up on the bed.

"It's not that funny," Sam says but he still grinning and he lays his head back and pushes damp hair off his forehead. Dean follows Sam's hand and feeling both silly and sentimental, presses his lips there.

"Share it anyway," Dean says and lies along Sam's side and moves his lips down to Sam's throat.

"Fulton County jail has a pretty crappy reputation," Sam says and turns his head so Dean's mouth is more in line with his. "The whole time you were in there, I was afraid of…I mean just horror stories I'd read while studying the history of the modern penal institution. And knowing your mouth," he says, and spends few seconds demonstrating a totally different and rapidly growing knowledge of every part of Dean's mouth. "It just…I was afraid…"

"That I'd shoot off my mouth to the wrong guy and get nailed?" Dean asks and he can see the irony of it, if not the humor. "Well, lucky for both of us I actually behaved myself, and you…you…" Dean can't say it, isn't sure how to even express gratitude or appreciation for -- not so much Sam's sacrifice because even if it is, it's not like Sam actually feels or thinks he lost something by doing it. Instead he curves his fingers under and around Sam's jaw and tries to show Sam that he still hasn't lost anything and neither has Dean. Not a partner, not a friend, not a brother…

And God help him, Sam is all that and more and maybe even more than Dean can handle, because Dean has kissed a lot of people, a lot of women, and he likes kisses, be they short and sweet or deep and wet and messy. Sam seems to be able to do both at the same time, doesn't even seem to need to breathe when he sucks on Dean's lower lip then goes hunting for his tongue, teasing and taunting until Dean pushes back. And Christ, Dean doesn’t know how Sam manages to suck so hard on his tongue that he can feel it all the way to his dick again. Sam is going to kill him with sheer pleasure.

He pulls away with a groan, panting harshly and Sam's mouth is wet and bruised and he rakes his teeth over his lower lip like there's no taste of Dean he's going to let escape if he can help it.

Dean lets his thumb rub across the red flush Sam's teeth have left on his lower lip and then has to close his eyes when Sam's mouth closes around it and his tongue teases the pad before he sucks. 'Bitch' is not the word that immediately springs to mind at what Sam's doing to him. Sinful does, though. Wicked, lustful, shameless, completely fucking with Dean's equilibrium and his ability to think with actual brain cells, or his body's contention that really, some recovery time is inevitable. Apparently, the latter belief is totally unfounded and Dean just drops his head and grits his teeth, feeling the ache and the tension start building again.

Under his hip, he can feel Sam's dick harden, like now that Dean's said yes to any of this he wants to make sure he gets his fill of him before Dean changes his mind.

If Dean could think at the moment he'd tell Sam he doesn’t have to worry. Especially if Sam is going to keep sucking on his fingers or do that stretching thing with his body again.

Sam gives his thumb a last lick and then pulls Dean's hand from his mouth and waits for Dean to finally get a breath that doesn't make him want to shatter in a thousand pieces. There has to be something in the water here, because Dean is pretty sure he'd have noticed if his brother had acquired the combined abilities of several succubi and probably a few of the lustier angels along the way. He doesn't recall that particular sleepy look on Sam's face making him want to roll over and take it like a man before. But God, he does. He totally does.

And Sam, the little shit, knows it, because he's grinning all the way to his eyes and he gives Dean a nudge with his hip. It's as much tease as challenge and Dean takes it up, pretty sure he's not going to regret it or lose.

He takes a deep breath and manages to reassert some control, although he's not sure why that seems like a good idea. Sam looks like he's ready to start laughing at him again and Dean gives him a warning look. "So…we've got a week stuck in this town," Dean says finally. "And I can't play pool. And you aren't going back there," he says and Sam doesn’t argue. "I can probably keep us fed but we are going to be bored…bored…bored…" he says but he can't stop grinning either when Sam starts laughing and scrunches down on the bed only to stretch again and Dean just squeezes his eyes shut and groans. He was wrong. He's totally losing it here.

He's pretty sure Sam wanted to kill him when he got arrested and maybe he still does. This could just be a long, twisted, torturous road to his final demise at the hands (and body) of his too serious but scarily sexy little brother with his twisty, complicated, really perverse brain.

The world has apparently lost out on a great lawyer and Dean doesn't really care because he's never liked lawyers anyway.

But he loves Sam more than he can ever say.

Maybe he should be worried that he's never seen Sam like this before, that his brother can be this wanton and appealing in bed and so cool and detached when the rest of the world's eyes are on him; that Sam's got the ability to shed inhibitions like he can take off his clothes.

Only this is why he never knew, never saw even a hint of it, in all the months they've been on the road and suddenly Dean knows there's probably only one other person, maybe, who's ever seen this part of Sam, or who Sam trusted enough to let see it, and she's dead.

Sam nudges his mouth against Dean's again and the hard curves and muscles of his body fit to the hollows of Dean's like they were cast from the same mold. That chasm is a lot deeper than Dean ever realized, and it's more familiar than he thought. The fall, while exhilarating, still has risks.

For a brief slice of an instant Dean catches a glimpse of hell and knows that there's a demon waiting to spit the blood of someone he loves in his face.

Dean's not foolish enough to invite it, but he whispers the vow against Sam's mouth and salutes the darkness with a flick of his middle finger. Stare at the devil long enough and he'll steal your soul.

Dean's not worried about it. His soul's already taken.

Still here reclimbing every rung
Someone saw something
Now Someone speak up
Back over the rotted bridge I cross
Open up these graves, let these bodies talk

Buried under leaves blood red and gold
Death says nothing back but I told you so
I told you so

God Says Nothing Back ~The Wallflowers


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