Always You, without time or space - Sam/Dean - NC-17 (spn_j2_bigbang 2009) - Pt. 3

[benitle_writes]

Apparently there is a hidden link somewhere.

They're ready to go after breakfast but when Sam checks the news online, he thinks maybe they should stay for another day. He's doesn't trust his eyes at first.

"Another death at the Met last night," he says, turning the computer so that Dean can see for himself. Dean's eyes open wide, obviously he's surprised, just like Sam.

"What?"

Sam shrugs his shoulders, indicating he's at his wit's end too. "Georgia Baehr, 58, has been working at the Met as a night guard for 35 years. Last night, she fell from the balcony on the second floor down to the Great Hall, onto the information desk. Broke her neck and died."

"What the fuck?" Dean shakes his head.

Sam hasn't been able to shake off this feeling of having overlooked something. It's stronger than ever. "Seems like we've missed something. Still think this is just random accidents?"

Dean shakes his head again. "You gotta be right. We must've missed something."

They sit in stunned silence for a while, both of them somewhat shocked that they almost walked away from an unsolved case. Sam doesn't believe in destiny but maybe, this is it. Destiny.

"Where did she die again?" Dean's taking out Dad's journal, finding his notes on the previous deaths.

Without thinking much, Sam repeats, "The Great Hall. Fell from the balcony."

He doesn't immediately get what Dean's getting at. "So, not the Temple."

Sam's still puzzled and even Dean's next thought doesn't register with him right away. "Maybe we couldn't find anything 'cause we've been looking at the wrong place, Sammy."

"All the previous deaths we know of happened there." Sam's pretty sure his face shows he doesn't follow.

Dean taps his finger against the journal and bites his lip. He briefly nods and with a shrug of his shoulders, he suggests, "Exactly. What if it's only ghostie's favorite place to hang out? But maybe it's not tied to the Temple itself."

Sam's facial features relax, his expression of thinking hard giving way to an expression of realization. Why didn't they consider this sooner? "Of course! No wonder we didn't find anything. No wonder the EMF didn't pick up signals."

Sam's not sure whether he should be relieved or not. He feels better about not being able to find anything because there was nothing to find where they've been searching. At least this doesn't make him a total failure, but it means they're back to square one.

"So it's gotta be something else, right?" Sam asks. "You know what that means?"

Dean cocks an eyebrow at him. When Sam mouths cursed object, Dean's eyes widen in horror. "Wait, you telling me we have to find a cursed object here? Among tens of thousands of objects?"

Sam shrugs. "Over two million actually."

"What?"

"The Met's collection contains more than two million pieces," he clarifies.

Dean's groan is muffled when he buries his face in his hands. "Oh honey, you know how to cheer someone up."

Sam's ears perk up immediately. For a brief moment his stomach flutters, quickly giving way to a recently so familiar feeling of irritation. Dean's right though. If they have to search through over two million pieces of artwork to find one possibly cursed object, then it's going to be one hell of a task. If it is a cursed object. The subject matter of the case suggests that a cursed object is a good starting point but there's no telling for sure. It wouldn't be the first time for them to be wrong about this case. Sam sighs.

"Look, here's what I suggest. Apparently, this isn't tied to one section if the ghost started killing at more than one place. And it doesn't seem to have anything to do with the Temple of Dendur. So let's check the dates when the objects were added to the collection. That'll rule out everything added after the first killing."

"That's gonna be a whole lot," Dean interjects.

Sam rolls his eyes, earning himself a broad grin from Dean. "Whatever, Dean. We also gotta check which objects were added to the collection around the first death in 1998. And whether anything's on loan and might be returned soon. Maybe the ghost's having some kind of last minute panic. Let's go from there."

Sam's obviously aware that this approach might not bring the desired result. "Any other suggestion, Dean?"

A grin spreads across Dean's face as if he'd been waiting for Sam to ask. "Guess we should ask at the security company whether they're hiring. After all, they've just lost two employees."



Turns out that finding a job at the security firm isn't all that difficult. The HR manager hints that after the accidents they haven't been particularly blessed with new applicants, even though she reassures them - and she tries repeatedly - that the job isn't hard and most importantly, it isn't dangerous. The only downside is the working hours but other than that, she insists how fun the job is. She does her best to hide her relief when Sam and Dean tell her that they'll take it. She's not good at it; she seems desperate enough to even hire them before running all the background checks. Sam hopes they'll be done with the case by the time she's through with those.

They're equipped with uniforms, flashlights and everything else they'll need for their job in no time.

Sam and Dean decide to use the time before they need to be at the Met to do some more research. They're back at Bryant Park for the free wi-fi, searching through the Met's online database and reading newspapers to eliminate as many objects from the list as possible. It goes painfully slow. Sam's getting more and more frustrated with each click he makes. So far, they've been able to definitely rule out three objects that were all purchased after 1998, out of over two million.

"This isn't going anywhere," he sighs, leaning back in his chair.

Dean's face is blank but Sam knows exactly what he's thinking. Dean's just as unhappy about this as he is.

"We'll find something tonight," Dean reassures with a shrug of his shoulder.

Sam has no doubt about that. Yet he'd feel better if they'd actually find something before they went into the lion's den.



By the time evening rolls around, they've been able to eliminate 235 works of art from their suspect list. It sounds like a lot, but not compared to the overall number of objects displayed. It's a big fucking joke.

They're at the Met at a little before 1:30 AM to take over their spot for the second shift of the night security guards at the museum. Sam and Dean had taken turns dozing in the park earlier and then a little more in the car, but Sam feels nowhere close to rested. He rubs at his eyes as they climb the steps to the entrance where they're supposed to meet a guy named Harold, who'll give them a rundown of what to do. Sam's heart is racing at a speed of one thousand beats per minute. Technically, he knows they're not allowed to carry firearms, yet Dean and he are each trying to smuggle in a gun loaded with iron bullets. They've got about one million excuses prepared if they get caught.

"So you're Sam 'n Dean?" Harold greets them, a grumpy expression on his face.

Sam and Dean nod in sync, wordlessly following Harold as he shuffles through the Great Hall. He's maybe in his early fifties and walks with a slight limp. It might result from an athletic injury, Sam doesn't know and doesn't ask. He steals a glance at Dean from the side and sees that Dean's just as perplexed as he is. When Harold hands each of them a floor plan together with instructions which areas to cover, Sam's surprised that he doesn't seem to care about their IDs. He doesn't check whether they're bringing any prohibited items into the museum either. Obviously, on the one hand, Sam's incredibly relieved about that but on the other, he's also unsettled when he thinks about all the other people that work here. Apparently, Harold either really trusts the HR department's judgment and their work or he just doesn't care at all.

Under Harold's watchful eye they slowly head off to their designated areas. Sam's supposed to keep an eye on the Asian Galleries on the second floor, taking Georgia Baehr's place whereas Dean's sent to the first floor part of the Sackler Wing that holds the Temple of Dendur, taking David Kowalski's place. Sam heads up the stairs, aware that Harold's still eyeing him suspiciously. He finds the security guard he's going to take over from at the Astor Court. He's a middle-aged man with a bright smile.

"You're the new guy?" he asks, apparently glad that his shift is over.

Sam holds out his hand and nods. "Sam."

"I'm Paul." Another blinding grin. "Okay, Sam. This is really easy. You just walk around a little, look a bit left and right and that's it. If anybody breaks in, an alarm will go off, same if someone touches one of the objects. We've had a few issues with false alarms lately so we go check out where the signal came from. If something's wrong, we call the cops, if not, well, then we don't. So nothing to worry about."

"Uh, okay," Sam nods. "Too bad about Georgia, right?"

Paul looks sad for a moment before he sighs heavily. "Yeah, too bad. She was a great woman. Always entertained everybody with her ghost stories and stuff. Trying to warn us guys."

Sam's ears immediately perk up. "Ghost stories?"

"Yeah," Paul laughs and shakes his head. "She always told a story about a ghost living here. Georgia claimed having seen her several times. All over the place. And that the ghost preyed on unfaithful men and then killed them. Some story about a guy who cheated on his lover. The woman took her own life, and then her ghost started murdering men who did the same thing to their wives."

Sam doesn't trust his own ears. His face must have shown.

"Crazy, isn't it? They should make a movie out of this shit," Paul grins. "Ah, Georgia and her fun stories. Bless her."

"Yeah," Sam pauses. "Say, Paul, did she ever say what the ghost looked like? Or in which section of the museum it lived? Anything more specific?"

Paul looks at him funny and says, "You know this is just a story, right?"

Sam thinks he might have missed his chance.

"Sure, sure," he says quickly. "Just, uh, I have this nephew and uh, this is the kind of story he'd love."

"Yeah, gotcha," Paul grins, apparently buying Sam's lie.

"No, she never said anything about that. Though, to be fair, no one ever listened to her story, you know?" Paul shrugs.

Too bad. Sam wants to bite his fist because their biggest clue to solving this case is currently at the morgue.

Clapping his hands together, Paul says, "Well, then. Have a good first night. I'll see you tomorrow, Sam."

All Sam can do is nod and wave goodbye. He gives it a few more minutes before he heads down the closest flight of stairs in search of Dean. He finds him sitting on one of the steps that lead up to the platform of the Temple of Dendur installation. He's talking to a dark-haired woman, a huge grin on his face. She's probably the one with the shift before Dean and even though Dean doesn't seem to be overly flirty, no more than usual, a hot feeling spreads in Sam's belly, the jealousy almost familiar these days. It's incredibly irritating. As soon as Dean spots him, he cocks his head. Turning his attention back to the woman, he's apparently trying to get rid of her because it doesn't take long before she's up and leaving. Sam's hiding behind a corner for her not to spot him. Once she's past him, he walks toward Dean, who gets up and meets him halfway.

Sam doesn't want to think about what's going on with him and how fixated he seems to be on Dean lately. Or how they haven't talked about their fight the night before and the things that happened after. He busies himself with their case instead.

"Guess what I got," Sam says, the question entirely rhetorical. "I just talked to Paul, who's got the shift before mine. Looks like our latest victim Georgia's been telling the staff ghost stories but no one believed her."

There's a flash of curiosity in Dean's eyes.

"Apparently, we're dealing with the ghost of a woman who's taking revenge on men who are cheating on their wives. Because the same thing happened to her," Sam says quickly.

"But why's Georgia dead then?"

Sam's only got one theory about that. "She tried to warn people. Maybe the ghost didn't like that."

Dean bites his lower lip, thinking. "Did she mention anything else? Like, where we should start looking? Which section?"

Sam shakes his head. "No, no one believed her so they didn't ask."

"Well, they better had. Too bad our best lead is dead."

Without a doubt, Sam seconds this but what's done is done. They still have a case on their hands and mourning that their biggest clue is deceased won't solve it. Even though they'll have to approach this the old-fashioned way, the information might come in handy later. For now, they're going back to the plan as scheduled. "You got the EMF?"

Dean reaches inside his pocket and pulls out the EMF meter, answering Sam's question. They start with the area they're currently in. It doesn't pick up anything as they walk around the Temple of Dendur and the remaining Egyptian Art gallery. They're moving at a snail's pace in order not to miss anything that might radiate the faintest signal. It turns out that everything seems to give off some kind of electromagnetic frequency. Sam witnesses now firsthand what Dean meant when he said he felt like walking through a thick fog of ghost smog. The goal is to find an object that gives off more electromagnetic frequencies than everything else. If that's even possible.

Sam's going first, always checking that there's no one in the room they're entering, Dean on his trail. Having to walk through the whole museum again isn't too bad, after all Sam hasn't seen everything yet. The slow pace allows him to look at the various objects at display again. This job definitely could be worse.

In the American Wing they're practically forced to flee from another night guard. Sam sees someone approaching them, or rather sees the shine of the flashlight first.

"This way," he says quickly, pulling Dean by the sleeve and up a flight of stairs. They end up on the second floor part of the American Wing where they continue their search. They walk through the Japanese Art gallery, past the Chinese Art and head through the Southeast Asian Art section when Dean grabs Sam by the jacket from behind, almost strangling him. "Dude, check this out."

For a moment, Sam gets his hopes up that maybe the EMF meter picked up something. Seeing Dean in front of a 12th century Indian sandstone figure, he doesn't think Dean's talking about the amazing detail when he says, "This is awesome."

The portrayed dancer's breasts and butt are rather prominent. Sam rolls his eyes and sighs, "Duh."

This is the first - and probably only - occasion where Sam has to drag Dean away from a piece of artwork. By the time they're almost done with the top floor, the sun's already beginning to rise. Sam knows that it means they'll have to do the same thing again tomorrow, but he doesn't mind. He'd rather be thorough now instead of missing another vital piece of information. As they make their way through the sections with European Paintings, he doesn't really expect any of the paintings to be cursed; he can't even explain why. It's just a feeling. After their last case in New Paltz though that featured a haunted painting he doesn't want to rule it out. They've only got the Ancient Near Eastern Art left on the second floor with most of the first floor still to go.

"Dean!"

Her appearance is so brief that Sam almost misses her.

Dean's by his side just in time to catch a glimpse of the ghost they've been searching for. She's got long, dark hair, not quite all the way to her waist. Her eyes are furious and dangerous; she looks vicious. Her pale skin stands out against her red, blue and white dress. The tunic covers her body from top to bottom, fastened at her shoulders and middle with golden pins. She seems Central or maybe South American and all of a sudden, it hits Sam like a freight train.

The Central and South American gallery on the first floor that gave Dean and he the chills when they first visited.

Before Sam even can draw out his Beretta, she's gone again. Clicking the safety lock back into place, Sam stuffs the gun into the waistband of his jeans. Dean looks stunned when Sam turns to him and says, "You see that?"

Stalking to where the ghost was, Dean asks, "What the fuck was that?"

Sam bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying a ghost, fully aware of the real meaning of Dean's question. "Looked Central or South American. Remember how we both felt weird down in the Central and South American section? We should go check it out."

Sam walks over to Dean until they're right next to each other. That's when he notices that something's not right. Something's really not right here. The fine hairs on his neck come to a stand, an icy shiver crawling down his spine. There's a loud sound as if a rockslide came crashing down and then another sound, as if someone slammed an oversized hammer onto a hard surface. He hears Dean call out his name, turns around, only to look into the eyes of a come-to-life, ten feet tall stone statue of a human headed lion with wings. One that's not looking too friendly from where Sam stands. And then everything happens so fast. He's on the ground, feels the crushing weight and piercing pain in his chest and barely registers the shots before everything around him becomes dark and peacefully silent.

Sam feels a little dizzy when he comes around to it again. It takes him a while to register that he's lying on the floor, his head in Dean's lap while Dean looks down on him with a concerned expression. It shifts from concerned to relieved when Sam keeps blinking at Dean.

"Hey there, little bro'," Dean whispers.

Sam squints at Dean for another few seconds before he asks. "Wha- what happened?"

"Looks like our little friend possessed a piece of fucking art and decided to have you for early breakfast."

Dean tilts his head to the side and when Sam sees the human-headed figure back in its original place, damaged, he glares at Dean. "Did you shoot at the artwork?"

Only Dean could do something like that.

"Wait, shouldn't I have done that? 'Kay, I'll let the fucker kill you next time." Dean's expression is sour.

"Oh, right. About that…"

Sam knew he forgot about something. He laughs and when he does his chest feels on fire. Immediately, he stops and groans, trying to look down. He sees dark patches of liquid on the front of his shirt and remembers the artwork stepping onto him and clawing at his chest. Great.

"I'll need to stitch that up for you," Dean says.

Sam's not arguing. "Uh, yeah. I- I think so."

"Don't worry, it's not that bad. I think it's only superficial cuts. A few stitches and you're as good as new. You're a big boy. Just got knocked out when you fell."

Sam's shirt is unbuttoned but not open; he assumes Dean had a look already. Of course Sam trusts Dean's judgment and nods.

"I'll, ah," he sucks in a breath, the pain piercing in his torso, "I'll live."

"Good," Dean says. "Can you get up?"

Sam nods again and lets Dean help him up. He feels mostly all right; he's just a little sore and disoriented. He's had far worse injuries, this is nothing major. He remembers that one time when he was sixteen. They were on a hunt in Louisiana and he had to run through the woods with a fractured metatarsus for over an hour. That was bad.

He'll be okay as soon as the dizziness fades. Heading toward the exit of the museum, he barely has to lean on Dean. He's gonna be fine. Before they finally leave, Dean drags him into a men's room to wash away most of the blood - where Sam sees again that it's not life-threatening bad - and to have him press paper towels against the cuts. They somehow make it outside without being seen.

They're taking it slow on their way to the car. It's maybe been two blocks when Dean stops suddenly.

"You wait here. Don't move," Dean gives Sam a stern look as he pushes him down onto one of the benches by the Park. When Sam tries to get up - he can walk, really. Dean pushes him down again and gives him that same look. "I'll go get the car. Stay here. You hear me, Sammy?"

"Yeah." Sam sighs. "I'll wait."

Before turning around, Dean puts his hands on Sam's and pushes them against Sam's torso. "Keep that pressed to the wound."

Sam's still nodding as he watches Dean go.

It's not long until he hears the familiar roar of the Impala and the creaking of the door as Dean gets out of the car. Dean's by his side again and Sam's glad for that. Even though there aren't that many people walking by at this time of the day, the few that did gave Sam a weird look. It probably wouldn't have taken very much longer for someone to call 9-11.

"Okay, come here now," Dean says, grabbing Sam's arm and hooking it around his neck. He takes Sam to the passenger side of the car and makes sure he's seated properly before getting back behind the steering wheel. It's got to be the combination of hitting his head, sleep deprivation and losing some blood that makes Sam so sleepy. His eyes drift shut every now and then. He's not paying attention to the buildings as they pass by. Sam's waiting for Dean to take them to a calmer area, stitch him up and then go from there. A nap would be nice.

When it seems like they're driving forever, Sam asks, confused, "Where're we going? Dean?"

Dean's eyes are on the road as he says, "I'm finding us a motel."

Dean's hand is on Sam's thigh, giving it quick squeeze. And that registers as really kinda nice in Sam's foggy brain. Then Dean's hand moves on top of Sam's and pushes so that more pressure is applied to the wound. Sam's wide-awake again within fragments of a second. "What? The case, Dean."

"Yeah, the case," Dean repeats sharply. His voice softens. "Sammy, you're hurt."

"'Tis not bad," Sam insists but Dean's not giving in.

"You still need stitches and I'm not stitching you up in the car. Besides, there's nothing we can do right now. The museum's open, there are too many people. We're going back tonight and until then, we're getting you some rest and patching you up."

Sam knows that Dean's right. They could use the sleep in a real bed. He doesn't know what's hurting worse, where the ghost-cum-piece-of-art pierced his chest or his back from trying to get comfortable in the Impala's backseat. They need to be alert tonight when they go back, so Sam nods. "Okay."

Dean drives while he checks up on Sam and tells him to keep applying pressure. Sam wishes Dean's hands were on top of his again, a thought he blames on exhaustion and longing for comfort. Eventually they find a tiny, ridiculously overpriced motel. Dean gets them a room and as soon as they enter, Sam's eyes spring wide open. A king.

"Only room they had left," Dean mutters, before he heads back out to grab their bags. Sam walks into the bathroom and finally takes off his shirt to assess the damage with his own eyes again. There's crusty blood all over his torso and he thinks it seems worse than it is. There are a few marks that are still leaking blood so Dean was right about needing stitches. Looking at his hands, Sam sees that they're shaking and blood-red.

"Hey," Dean says, entering the bathroom. Sam didn't hear him coming back. "You okay?"

Sam nods, not moving when Dean comes closer. He's really fucking tired. Dean's got dark circles underneath his eyes and Sam hadn't realized until now how the last few days have taken their toll on Dean too.

"It's not as bad as it looks," Dean says, taking the shirt from Sam. He places their first aid kit on the rim of the bathtub and then pushes Sam down next to it. Dean studies him for a few seconds, probably waiting to see if he's gonna fall over and crack his skull. But Sam doesn't and, eventually, Dean grabs a clean towel, wets it and wipes down Sam's naked chest. He hisses when the terry cloth rubs over his sensitive skin. It doesn't get better when Dean cleans the wounds with antiseptic but Sam manages. This isn't the first time he's been patched up.

"See, it's not too bad, squirt. You still dizzy?" Dean asks. He looks relieved when Sam shakes his head, no, he's not. He's just tired after a long day.

Dean tells him not to fall over and to stay as he is before he quickly rushes back to the room. He returns with his hip flask and when he holds it out to Sam, Sam takes it. Sam's just about to deny the alcohol, doesn't really think he needs it, but then he sees Dean thread the needle and changes his mind. He's not scared of needles and he's not a wuss - despite what Dean sometimes might say, jokingly or not. After the kind of day Sam had, they've had, he doesn't think he needs to bother with more pain. He takes three very large gulps quickly and is pleasantly dizzy. He barely registers when Dean starts piercing him. Instead he registers how gentle Dean's hands are on his skin, how he's rubbing his thumb softly across Sam's belly. Sam quickly discards the thought, he really shouldn't think about that now. In the end, he takes two more large gulps from the flask before Dean's finished.

"Okay, you're done," Dean says before he wipes another cotton ball soaked with antiseptic over Sam's wounds. He washes his hands and helps Sam up. The effect of the alcohol is already fading by the time Dean helps him lie down on the bed. "You should get some sleep, Sammy."

"Where're you going?" Sam mumbles as Dean makes a move to lie down on the floor after closing the blinds. Dean gives him a weird look, one that asks, isn't it obvious? Then Sam realizes that it kinda is.

"Dean, we can share the bed," he says. They've done so plenty of times when they were kids. Sure, there came a point when they both insisted on having their own beds - puberty - but they'll be fine for a night or two. The case should be solved tomorrow night or the night after that, so it's no big deal. However, Sam wants to take back the next thing he says as soon as he realizes he actually said it. "I'm not gonna molest you in your sleep, you know?"

Dean stares at him, mouth wide open. That's a sight Sam doesn't get to see that often but he's too embarrassed to enjoy it. He wishes the ground would open up and swallow him.

"Dean, I-"

All of a sudden, a huge grin spreads on Dean's face. "Always knew, Sammy, a few gulps of booze and your book smarts would pull a Houdini on you."

Sam knows this isn't it. He can see through Dean's fake grin, can see the unease underneath his expression and the obvious attempt to play the situation and its innuendo down with wit. He can feel that there's something on Dean's mind he doesn't say and it's unnerving Sam to no end. But he knows this is Dean's way of telling him that they're not talking about this, not what made Sam say it and why it made Dean react the way he did. Instead, Dean takes off his boots and flops own on the bed next to Sam.

They just lay in silence for a while. Sam's already half asleep when the bed dips next to him and Dean asks, "Care to tell me why ghostie thought you made a better target with both of us standing practically next to each other?"

Looking to the right, Sam finds Dean lying on his side, staring at him. Sam shrugs. "Dunno."

Judging from Dean's expression, he doesn't buy it. Sam should have known. "Don't lie to me, Sammy,"

He's got a theory but he really doesn't want to explain it to Dean. Not all of it at least. "I-"

"You didn't cheat on Jess," Dean cuts him off. "I know you. You don't have it in you to cheat."

Sam knows it's not meant as a challenge, but the statement enrages him nonetheless. He's angry because despite having been on the road together again for almost a year now, Dean still totally fails to see that Sam's no longer the kid he was before he went to college. He's no longer that same person. He's grown up for fuck's sake. "What do you know, Dean? We haven't seen each other in two fucking years! How can you claim you know me?"

Dean flinches before his face becomes hard. Sam's aware he's getting agitated and that he's raising his voice but he can't stop. He just wants Dean to treat him like an adult.

"So, did you cheat on her?"

"No," Sam answers quickly. He never did. Never.

There's a smug grin on Dean's face as he props up on one elbow. He looks self-righteous, content that he just heard what he wanted to hear. "See, told ya. You can't even get laid these days. No matter how hard a girl is forcing herself onto you."

It takes a lot for Sam to not just jump onto Dean and throttle him. He doesn't know why Dean's bringing up Sarah again. He thinks back to her and how she was very willing to sleep with him but how Sam didn't want it, hell, how he'd even been reluctant to kiss her. He doesn't know why Dean thinks this is his problem or even his business. Quickly, he turns to the side and the pulling in his chest reminds him of the stitches. He can't help but snarl at Dean though. "I thought about it. I thought about cheating on Jessica. There was someone else I liked but I never acted on it."

There's an intrigued look on Dean's face before he just snorts. Sam almost regrets having said that much, if this is the reaction he receives. He'd never been unfaithful to Jess even though there was someone in one of his pre-law classes who made a tempting offer. Sam considered it. Maybe the thought alone was enough for the ghost or maybe it just felt threatened and attacked randomly. Ghosts aren't exactly known for operating on logic.

Dean gives him another weird look and gets up from the bed. He's looking out of the window, back turned to Sam. Sam sits up sharply, winces as soon as he realizes what a bad idea it was.

"What's your problem, Dean?" he asks. He gets up and walks toward the side of the room, coming to stand behind Dean. When he puts a hand on Dean's shoulder, he feels him go tense. "Dean. Why's my love life so important to you? Why d'you care so much if I'm getting laid or not? Don't give me the You'd be more relaxed excuse. I know that's not it. Why d'you care whether I cheated on Jessica or not? What the hell's going on? Tell me, man. Please."

Dean doesn't turn around. His torso swells as he takes a deep breath and sinks as soon as he exhales. Sam barely hears him over the loud and fast beating of his own heart.

"My problem?" Dean whispers, then he's silent for what feels like a lifetime.

"Dean," Sam says again, voice softer, more pleading.

Dean sighs and tenses even more. "I like you. More than I should."

"What do you mean?" Sam's grip on Dean's shoulder tightens.

Dean's expression is pained and somewhat sad when he finally turns around. The snark in his voice is only halfhearted. "College-educated, huh?"

And then Sam gets it. "Oh."

They're staring at each other for several long, painful seconds. Until Dean can't stand to hold Sam's gaze anymore and focuses on his sock-clad feet instead. Sam tries to lift his head, places a hand underneath Dean's chin but Dean's defiant. All of a sudden it makes sense. Dean's excessive attempts to get Sam laid. Dean's over-the-top flirting with everyone and everything.

But that's not the only realization Sam has, his own feelings, the ones he never could classify seem to fall into place. The jealousy. The weird feeling when he read about the Isis and Osiris myth. The heat that spread whenever Dean touched him. How he started registering things he'd never registered before, like a gentle touch. It's all there now.

"How long's this been going on?"

"Forever," Dean admits. "It's always been you, Sammy. Always. Everything. Always you. I tried to deny it, but after the shtriga case in Fitchburg, I couldn't. Always you."

Sam says the next thing without thinking. "Why- why didn't you tell me sooner?"

Finally, Dean lifts his head. He looks at Sam as if he just asked him whether Santa and the Easter Bunny are real. Or how to kill a werewolf. He's making Sam feel a little stupid but at least he's no longer staring at the ground.

His laugh is loud and hollow, humorless as his face petrifies. "Duh. 'Cause I'm your brother, dumbass? Didn't feel like I needed another reason to drive you away with my creepy, inappropriate thoughts."

Sam reckons it's now or never. "What if I'm having them too?"

"What?" is as far as Dean gets before Sam silences him with a firm kiss to his lips.

He does it without wasting a thought on how Dean might react or what Dean might do. Sam just follows his instincts, there's no finesse in what he's doing. Dean's lips are hot, but dry, against his own. They're unmoving for a few, long agonizing moments. Sam can pretty much hear the wheels turning in his own head, his mouth still shut over Dean's awkwardly. He's about to pull away, regretting what he said, regretting what he did when Dean's hand fists in his hair, keeping him in place. Dean's lips part, his tongue tentatively brushes over Sam's bottom lip. Sam stops thinking at this point, allows himself to go with the spur of the moment, the feeling of Dean's mouth, hot and wet, against his. They're kissing. He's kissing his brother, the thought is equally disturbing, fascinating and arousing. He wonders whether Dean makes out with women like this, tugging at their lower lip, swiping the tip of his tongue over it, teasing them with barely enough. But then he stops caring because there are no women around; Dean's his and only his right now.

Dean's grip in his hair tightens until it's almost painful. Sam's hands move up to Dean's waist, sliding along the curve of his back, holding him in place as if he needs to stop Dean from vanishing. Sam doesn't quite know what else to do with his hands, the kiss is good even though awkward and unfamiliar. He's trying not to think about the fact that he's currently standing in a crappy, overpriced motel room, next to a king-sized bed, making out with his brother. Instead, he closes his eyes and concentrates on how it feels: Dean kissing him with urgency, his tongue sliding along Sam's. It's only when Dean pulls away that Sam opens his eyes again.

He knows it lasted only briefly and it didn't feel nearly long enough.

They stare at each other, taking a step back in mutual, silent agreement. They're both breathing heavily. There's a sparkle in Dean's eyes, his lips swollen and spit-wet. An incredible hunger grows inside Sam. He wants to kiss those lips again, bite them, suck them, lick them. But he's scared of what's coming next. What might come next. He's scared of rejection, of being told what a sick fuck he is for wanting this, for wanting his brother like this. He's scared of thinking about it too much but he can't help it.

"I don't know what to say," Dean whispers, barely looking at Sam.

He's not angry, he's not shouting. That's a good thing. Dean almost seems shy, though Sam knows it's not that. It's got to be the same feelings, the same thoughts that are haunting Sam right now. Being torn between wanting this and knowing how wrong it is, how wrong it always will be, no matter how they feel. Being scared and vulnerable. And fucking confused. They have their own ways of dealing with this and Sam knows that offering to talk about this isn't what they need. Not now. Dean's always been a man of action, so Sam goes with it.

He takes Dean by the hand and pulls him slowly toward the bed. Sam sits down and scoots back so that he's resting against the headboard. He's not letting go so Dean has no other choice but to follow him.

"Maybe I don't want you to say anything right now," Sam whispers, mimicking Dean before he bends over and kisses him again.

It's a little less awkward this time, but still strange. Sam moves until they're lying down, side by side. He wants to laugh but the situation's too serious and he's worried Dean would misunderstand. Their arms and legs are barely touching, only their lips. Not that Sam wants to hold hands or anything but another person could fit between them. He sighs and takes matters in his own hands.

Dean grunts as he's rolled over. He doesn't go willingly, hunter instincts kicking in after years and years of training. Sam manages to push him onto his back though and settles on top of him immediately. He looks at Dean, registers the expression on Dean's face. Sam can count the number of occasions he's seen Dean look this way on one hand. Dean seems insecure, unsure what to do, when and how. Sam can relate.

He straddles Dean's hips, bending down again and capturing his lips in another kiss. It's fiercer this time. Dean seems to wake from his trance; his hands fist in Sam's hair, keeping him firmly in place. It's getting more heated as they start to figure this out. Sam learns that Dean's hands tighten quickly when Sam bites and he also learns that Dean likes sucking at his lower lip. When he grinds down, Sam can't tell whose muffled groan is louder.

Dean's hands move from Sam's hair over his torso. Sam hadn't bothered to put on a shirt after Dean patched him up, so he gets the bonus of skin on skin contact. Dean's nails are blunt as he scratches over Sam's skin, setting it on fire. He rolls them over again and Sam doesn't mind when Dean's leaning above him, careful not to disturb the stitches. There's no need for words as they start exploring each other's bodies - hands, lips and breathy moans their only communication.

Sam's dick is slowly getting hard as Dean kisses and licks along Sam's chest. It may be a little ridiculous how turned on Sam is with Dean not even touching his cock but he's sucking at Sam's nipples and Sam might be a little sensitive there. Besides, he finally has the person he loves most in the world the way he's wanted him for a long time - even if it took him a while to realize it.

A steady hum vibrates in Sam's throat; he moans particularly loud whenever Dean touches the more sensitive areas of his body. He could definitely get used to this. Dean's good at what he's doing, especially as he grows more and more confident with each touch. Every now and then, Dean tears his gaze away from Sam's body, looking up and into his eyes as if he needed the reassurance that everything's okay between them. Sam runs his fingers through Dean's hair, softly combing through the too short strands. He smiles because he's happy, because he's sure now; he wants this.

"Don't stop now," Sam whispers, scared that the world is going to shatter around them if he speaks too loudly.

"What d'you need?"

The answer seems pretty obvious but when Sam actually thinks about it for a second, he realizes it's more complex than that. Dean. He needs Dean. He needs to feel him, to know that Dean's his. That they're together. Always will be. And not just physically. But for now -

Sam grins and grabs one of Dean's hands. He pushes it down to the bulge in his sweatpants, the answer so substantially clear. Dean grins and nods. "Yeah, that."

He rubs down with firm pressure. When Sam moans, Dean presses his mouth to Sam's again, effectively silencing him. They're kissing, their tongues tangling while Dean's hand slips under the waistband of Sam's sweats and underwear. Almost automatically, Sam's hips buck when Dean's hand connects with his dick. Dean doesn't waste any time as he closes his palm around it in a tight grip. It's divine. At this point, all Sam can do is cling to Dean, clutch at his shoulders while Dean's hand moves up and down his cock in dry movements. There's no finesse, no exquisite technique to it when Dean starts grinding against Sam, his hard-on against Sam's thigh. Their movements don't slow, their lips still pressed together. It's all about white-hot need.

It's not the best sex Sam's ever had, they're not even fully naked but it gets him off nonetheless. The urgency and the desire are there. Dean is there. Sam comes with a hoarse cry, swallowed by Dean's mouth. He breaks the kiss to catch his desperately needed breath. Panting wetly against Dean's throat, Sam lets Dean stroke him through the aftershocks of orgasm until his limbs stop trembling violently. Dean's leaning over him, so close that he feels Dean's breath on his skin, smells the sweat coating his body. Dean wiggles, the outline of his cock still hard against Sam's thigh.

For a moment, they just stare at each other. It's not uncomfortable but not exactly comfortable either. Sam wonders whether he should say something now, offer to talk about it, but he's not sure Dean would appreciate it. Dean rolls off him, the bulge in his pants clearly visible. When Sam makes a move to sit up, reaching for the button of Dean's jeans, Dean's hand keeps him pressed to the mattress.

"Watch your stitches," Dean warns, gently. "I really don't wanna do them again."

Sam pouts, sticking out his bottom lip. It earns him a shit-eating grin from Dean. That typical Dean grin. All for him.

"Let me get you off at least."

Dean wouldn't be Dean if he said no to sex. He grins again and slowly pops open button after button. He's teasing Sam and judging from Dean's expression, he knows it. Dean puts on a show for him, losing the shirt first, then his pants and socks until he finally pushes off his underwear. Dean's sitting on his heels, out of Sam's reach. His cock is hard and the tip is wet with pre-come, making Sam's mouth water.

Sam holds out his hand for Dean and says, "I wanna suck you. Please, let me suck you."

Dean's by his side in no time, it's a little funny how easy Dean is when offered a blowjob - not that Sam blames him. Quickly rolling over, Sam settles in the V of Dean's legs. He thinks it's perfect how he fits. Unlike Dean insists, the stitches aren't an obstacle at all. He's comfortable like this and a little excited as he takes Dean's dick in his hand, concentrating on how it feels in his palm, hot and hard. He gives it a few tentative strokes, tries out different amounts of pressure until he thinks he's got it right. It earns him plenty of moans from Dean, only spurring him on.

Sam licks at the head first. He teases with the tip of his tongue before he presses it flat against the crown. Dean bucks his hips and curses; it makes Sam feel rather smug. Not wasting any time, Sam takes as much of Dean into his mouth as he can. Dean's dick is heavy on his tongue, a steady weight filling him. Sam goes slow at first as this isn't exactly familiar. He feels the drool drip down his chin, smearing when it's too much to swallow. But there's a constant hum in Dean's throat, an encouraging sound so Sam keeps going. Then, there's gentle pressure on his head. He feels fingers running through his hair, not tugging or pushing, they're just there. When Sam looks up, his eyes find Dean's. There's arousal written all over Dean's face. He's worrying his lower lip, his pupils wide and shining. His breath is coming in short, little pants, his skin rosy and shimmering with the faintest layer of sweat.

"Fuck, so good, Sammy. Keep going. Come on," Dean encourages even though Sam doesn't need to be told. "Fuck. Wish you could see yourself. So hot, Sammy with my dick in your mouth. Fuck."

It's too soon for Sam to get hard again but he feels the sensation in his stomach, the pleasant tightness, his skin tickling as if millions of tiny ants were marching over it. It's been way too long since he's felt like this. He thinks he's getting better as he's becoming more familiar with what he's doing, the sucking and the licking. He cups Dean's balls in his palm and massages them gently before he licks his way along the shaft down to where his hand had been moments ago. He sucks and nibbles his way back to the head and Dean's definitely not complaining. But Sam wants more, needs more. He's so hungry for it.

He pulls off and wipes his mouth. When Dean whines low in his throat, Sam crawls up his body and whispers, "I want you to fuck me."

Dean looks unsure for a moment. "What? You sure about that? We don't ha-"

Sam doesn't let him go any further. "I know we don't have to, Dean. That's why I said I want you to fuck me."

Dean grins and doesn't object. "Hm, pushy."

Speaking of pushy, Dean rolls Sam onto his back again. He might not ask again with words - are you sure? - but his eyes certainly do. Sam nods, just to confirm again that yes, he really wants this. He's about to tell Dean how he's dying for it when Dean bends to the side and grabs a condom from his duffel.

"We'll need some kind of lube," Sam says, aware they might not have any. Dean's expression sort of confirms Sam's concern. That leads him to the next idea. "Check the bathroom for lotion? I thought I saw some."

He doesn't need to tell Dean twice. While Dean's rushing to the bathroom, Sam allows himself to admire the sight of Dean's naked ass. There are other things he'll have to suggest they try some other time. Dean returns with a small, white bottle and a huge grin on his face.

They don't waste any time getting right back to business. Sam loses the rest of his clothes before he lets his thighs fall open for Dean to settle between them. When they kiss, hot and wet, Sam wonders whether he should give Dean any instructions or whether he'll know what to do. He wonders whether Dean's done this before; obviously, Sam's not thinking about the sex with his brother part but about gay sex or even just the part with the butt sex. But he's not asking.

Dean's generous with the lotion, spreading it on his fingers. As it turns out Dean knows exactly what to do. He's taking his time teasing Sam. At first, he merely strokes with light, too light, fingertips, inflaming all of Sam's nerve endings. By the time he gets around to the stretching him out, Sam's already getting hard again.

"Ready?" Dean finally says.

Sam has never been more ready. He nods and strokes his hand over his dick, watching Dean roll down the condom and slick himself some more.

"This okay?" Dean asks, slowly pushing inside.

Sam feels the stretch, feels the resistance but also feels how good it is. He nods, tries to spread his legs a little wider to give Dean better access. Dean seems to get the memo and grabs Sam's calves, gently nudging them a little further apart.

"Just go slow, okay?" Sam breathes. "Been a while."

As soon as he says it, he sees Dean's ears perk up, Sam registers what he just said. Immediately, his face feels hot. He kinda did not want to admit that. Dean's expression isn't quite jealous, not quite intrigued, but it's something in between.

When Dean asks, "Done this before?" he tries to sound nonchalant but his voice betrays him more than his eyes do. Sam bites his lip to stop the grin from spreading on his face.

"Might've," he shrugs, trying for nonchalance himself. "You know me, always an inquisitive student."

"Guess so," Dean grins - way too smug. When he tilts his hips a little, brushing the head of his dick over Sam's prostate, Sam curses loudly. It earns him an evil smirk from Dean.

They don't find a rhythm right away but once they do, it's pretty much perfect. Dean's careful at first, just like Sam asked him to be, but when Sam encourages him to be a little more forceful, Dean doesn't object either. Sam's hand reaches for his dick, stroking it in sync with Dean's thrusts. It doesn't take long until the only sounds in the room are the squeaking of the bed and their combined pants with the occasional Fuck, God, Yeah.

Sam feels Dean come, just seconds before he does. His hips stutter, his smooth movements falter before he spills into the condom with one final thrust. It takes Sam a few more strokes to finish himself off again, heated bliss washing over him. He winces when Dean pulls out, but quickly reassures Dean that he's fine, - no, you didn't hurt me - just that he's simply oversensitive. Dean collapses next to him.

There's silence.

The room reeks of sex; their sweat and come, and the faint scent of cheap lotion laying over the other smells not quite fitting in. This is the moment Sam's been dreading. He fears the realization and nausea. He's just had sex with his brother. He expects Dean to be disgusted.

But nothing happens. There's simply more silence.

Eventually, Sam turns to the side. He's not surprised to find Dean watching him with big eyes. Sam doesn't say anything. Not sure what's there to say. Thanks for the great fuck? or rather Sorry, I made sure you're going to hell? Neither seems appealing. So he keeps quiet.

"Stop thinking, Sammy," Dean says. When Sam gives him a puzzled look, he goes on, "I can hear your little wheels turning over here. It's disturbing."

Sam wants to make a witty remark about his thoughts being so loud only because Dean's head is filled with nothing except air so there's nothing to hear but he's not sure brotherly banter would be appreciated right now. He nods. And then, he thinks, he might as well go for it.

"Are - are we okay?"

He bites his lower lip. There are so many things he wants to say but he's scared of speaking them out. Terrified again of being rejected. Sam knows they should talk about them. Was this a onetime thing? Where's this going?

Dean doesn't answer right away and it only worries Sam even more. "We will be, Sammy."

Dean presses a kiss to Sam's lips. Without hesitation, Sam opens his mouth, inviting Dean's tongue to find his own. It's slow and lazy, now that all passion has dampened. This feels good, really, really good, and it all makes sense. This is what had been missing back in New Paltz. Dean is the missing piece of the puzzle and the reason he hadn't enjoyed making out with Sarah. As if he needs to hold on to that realization, Sam's hand grabs Dean's biceps, squeezing tight.

When Dean moves his mouth to Sam's ear, he whispers, "I'm not going anywhere, Sammy. Not going anywhere."



They nap for a while; after all, they've got some sleep to catch up on before they return to the museum in the evening. Turns out, the king isn't such a bad thing after all. Dean insists that Sam stay in bed as much as possible to rest and make sure the stitches aren't disturbed. When Sam wakes up again, he finds the bed empty, no trace of Dean in the room.

He sits up quickly, the sting in his chest reminds him that he had been patched up earlier. He tries Dean's cell and finds it switched off. Theoretically, Sam knows he shouldn't worry because there might be a million and one reasons why Dean's not here and why he's unreachable.

Taking a deep breath, Sam climbs out of bed - he's still naked - and walks toward the bathroom. He finds a note from Dean on the table and picks it up, hands shaking a little. When he reads it, he has to laugh at his own stupidity.

Out to get food. Back later. Rest!

Masterpost | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 & Thanks/Acknowledgements | Art Masterpost