Sam/Dean Mini-bang: An Act of Endless Forgiveness: Part One

[lizzywinks]

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Love is an act of endless forgiveness, a tender look which becomes a habit.
~Peter Ustinov

"Sam, wait, maybe we should-"

Sam's careful not to slow his stride, just far enough ahead of Dean to make it believable he hasn't heard over the sounds of the wind whipping through the tall fields. It's easier than trying to reason with Dean once he starts thinking too much, starts doubting Sam's plans, their plans technically since Dean hadn't raised any real objections when he suggested it. It's nothing new, but since they got back together and Dean figured out-and then finally accepted-that Sam isn't quite Sam any longer, it's been happening more and more frequently. It's an annoying, but not impossible situation. Dean might bitch that he doesn't know Sam anymore, but Sam knows his brother, soul or no soul, and workarounds are easy enough to put into place.

Sam lifts his glance briefly from the ground to take in the view around him. The night is unusually bright, fat, white moon casting an unnatural glow that the eye could be fooled into thinking was day through sunglasses dark enough. When they'd first checked out the area yesterday morning, the fields of Planter's Ridge had been a lush, verdant green, filled with heavy fruit trees and alive with the sounds of insects and birdsong. Now the approaching storm has left the area silent and oppressive. Someone else would probably say creepy, but Sam knows what's out there. He's long past being afraid of the creatures that hide in the night, even before becoming practically incapable of it.

Up ahead, a gust of wind parts the long grass. Through the soft stalks Sam can see the small alter and statue sitting atop it that their case apparently centers around. He lengthens his stride and hears Dean swear behind him; probably stepped in, or tripped over, something while he was busy trying to gain Sam's attention instead of watching where he was going. That's always been Dean's problem; too focused on the wrong things. Whatever caused him to call out, it's obviously not life-threatening-no reason for Sam to slow down. So little is.

Sam's reaching into the bag on his shoulder to pull out the flask filled with holy oil as he comes to a stop. The oil had cost far more than they'd really wanted to pay, but making it themselves would have meant buying even more expensive herbs and seeds and taken time they don't have. It only takes a moment to unscrew the cap and upend the contents of the flask over the statue. Sam's got the cheap lighter from his back pocket flipped open and ready to strike before Dean is close enough to try again.

"Shit, Sam, hold up a goddamn second!"

The oil drips lovingly down the statue's rough-hewn face, more simian than goddess now, the long years and elements gradually stripping away nearly every hint of humanity. The cold glow of the moon highlights the oil gathering in the corners of statue's eyes, delicate and glistening like tears, as it drips slowly down onto the wooden plinth it's sitting on.

Sam drops the lighter onto the plinth, and then swings the sledgehammer above his head to drop it down, hard. The force of the blow reverberates up his arms, ringing in his ears. One more blow splits the statue clean in two, and the two halves drop as one into the soft, sweet grass. There's a sound like a muffled scream, and a small flare in the flames surrounding the stone. Sam nods. Job done.

"Fuck, Sam," Dean bites out from beside him. He's panting slightly, as if he's run the last few feet, but mostly he just sounds seriously pissed. "Didn't you hear me calling you?" he demands, already tamping down the flames spreading through the wooden base. The grass is too wet though for the fire to have any hope of spreading once it's source of fuel is gone, and Sam watches Dean's steel-toed boots dancing through the flames, never staying in one place long enough for the heat to penetrate the heavy leather to reach the fragile flesh beneath.

"No, sorry; wind is kind of loud out here." Sam's carefully tucking the flask and the sledgehammer into his pack. He combines the action with taking a few casual steps out of range before Dean can 'accidentally' jab the heel of his boot into Sam's ankle in retribution. "What's up?"

"Not that it matters now," Dean says, giving one last disgusted kick toward the slowly dying flames, "but don't you think something feels... off here?" Sam looks over at Dean, eyebrows raised, but doesn't press for more. "This place is dead, Sam," Dean points out, slow and patient as though Sam's the idiot. "Yesterday it was like a freaking Disney movie on acid and now suddenly everything just packed up and left?"

"Storm's coming." Sam shrugs, distant rumble of thunder adding weight to his argument. "Animals have just got more sense than we have to take shelter till it passes."

"Maybe," Dean says. He's biting down on his lower lip, eyes scanning the area. In the gleaming moonlight, Dean looks more like a god than the statue Sam's left smoldering in the grass beside them, ancient and otherworldly. His brother is beautiful in a way that despite his cocky attitude and how often he plays on it to pick up women, Sam knows he's always been slightly uncomfortable with. It's a wasted asset as far as Sam is concerned; Dean's good looks might get him through the door, but his special brand of over-the-top sleazy generally gets him thrown right back out again. "Maybe," Dean says again, "but my gut's telling me there's something wrong. We should have done more research-"

Sam's snort cuts him off. "You wanted to do more research? That's a first."

"Screw you, Sam," Dean snaps. He's making a poor job of hiding the hurt the mostly truthful jab causes, and Sam represses a sigh when Dean's mouth pulls in tight. "Just do want you want. You always do anyway." Dean stomps one final time on the last dying embers and turns to retrace their steps, back stiff with affront. Sam scans the area to make sure he's left nothing behind, then jogs a little to catch up with this brother, easily matching his longer stride to Dean's.

"Dean, c'mon, this is what we agreed. We did the research. If we'd wasted time doing more, we'd probably be waking up to another dead body in the morning."

"Like you said, Sam, storm's coming," Dean raises his voice over the wind that's picking up. A flash of lightening splits the sky. Sam quickens his steps; Dean bitches if the Impala's upholstery gets wet, and the motel is at least a forty minute drive from where they are. It already looks like Dean's set to sulk the night away and Sam isn't particularly keen on adding any further fuel to the fire. "All the vics had the same thing in common-they visited this statue, and no one is going to be doing that tonight. We had time."

"You sure of that?" Sam asks. "'Cause I'm not. I mean, look at this place, Dean." Dean pointedly ignores Sam's sweeping arm gesture, and keeps his gaze dead ahead. "We're out in the middle of nowhere. Why suddenly were all these people so desperate to come here? The statue had to be calling them somehow, and who's to say that a little rain's enough to keep them away?"

"Old lady Haversham at the historical society said it was probably a fertility statue. That's the kind of thing you visit in the daytime, Sam, not in the dead of night in the middle of a freaking thunderstorm. Kinda spoils the mood, y'know?"

"It was Mrs. Hartman, Dean, and if it ever was a fertility statue, which we aren't sure about, then I doubt it's got any juice left now because murder suicide doesn't usually go hand in hand with the urge to procreate."

"My point exactly," Dean growls, and turns to glare Sam down. "We couldn't identify the statue, the only person we know visited the place for sure is Sonia Radcliffe because this is where her body was found, but the other two women were only placed here by the cops because they were apparently overcome with the need to get naked, and then leave their clothes behind. No one could confirm for definite the stuff they found belonged to them, and if any of the husbands were with them, they sure as hell didn't leave any trace behind. Shit, Sam, we have more questions than answers right now, so yes, I think we should probably have slowed down before we destroyed the only clue we have that isn't lying in a morgue!"

Sam shrugs, and watches as Dean's scowl deepens. "You're right, Dean, but we discussed this; we have six bodies in four days, and the little we do know is pointing to the statue being involved. Unless you were planning on one of us standing guard here until we could say one hundred percent that this is the cause of three apparently happy husbands offing their wives and then themselves, I'm not really seeing what choice we had."

Dean deflates and reaches up to swipe a weary hand across his face, shadows darkening the circles under his eyes until they look like bruises. Sam knows that Dean has been staying awake later and later each night, either to keep Sam company or, more likely, to keep an eye on him through the midnight hours. Dean doesn't trust him, but that's okay; Sam doubts he ever completely trusted him before. "If we need that statue, Sam," Dean says, turning to resume his slow trudge toward the Impala, "we're boned."

"We took photos yesterday," Sam reminds, falling in. "And if we're right and it was causing the deaths, it's destroyed now. Either way, we won't need the statue."

~*~

There’s still a definite chill in the air by the time Dean pulls up at the hotel. No words are exchanged between them as Dean grabs the bag containing his half of the equipment, and shoulders his way through the door.

"First shower," he calls, already shedding his outwear like breadcrumbs behind him. The bathroom door closes very quietly on Dean’s stiff figure. With Dean, the level of his anger is usually in direct proportion to the amount of noise he makes. The quieter he gets, the further away it’s generally safest for whoever's pissed him off to be.

Sam dumps the rest of the bags on the floor and turns on the coffee maker to the sounds of water pipes clanking. By the time he’s drunk his first cup, Dean still hasn’t appeared, although the shower shut off about five minutes earlier. Bobby still isn’t answering his phone, so Sam sends a quick text updating him on the night’s events. He considers briefly shouting through the door to tell Dean what he’s done, and decides to leave him to get over whatever new bug has crawled up his ass.

When the bathroom door finally jerks open to reveal Dean in a swirling cloud of steam, Sam has the laptop open, trying to hack into the local coroners department.

"Think I’m gonna head out to that bar we saw on the way into town, grab something to eat, maybe have a few drinks," Dean announces, voice muffled as he drags hit t-shirt over his head. His voice isn’t as tight around the edges now, and there’s a definite looseness to his gait. "You up for some pool, Sam?" He glances over and away as he sits on the edge of the bed to pull socks onto his bare feet.

"Nah, think I’ll finish up here." Dean cranes his neck and grunts when he sees the laptop screen.

"’Kay." Dean pushes his feet into his boots, twisting his body to tie the laces. "Want me to bring you something back? Burgers, ribs? Pretty sure I saw a sandwich place at that strip mall if you want some of your rabbit food shit. I can drop it off before I hit the bar?"

Sam takes that to mean it’s going to be another late night, and shakes his head. "Not really hungry, Dean."

"Sure?" Dean already has his keys in his hands and is bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. "Last chance?"

"I’m sure. Thanks," Sam adds belatedly when Dean doesn’t make a move to open the door.

Dean hesitates for a moment longer and then nods once, the move jerky and sharp. "Hey, Sam, do you think we don’t hang out now because you don’t have a soul, or do you think you never really wanted to hang out before, but you just didn’t have the stones to come out and say it?"

Sam purses his lips, considers. "Maybe a little of both," he says finally. "I mean, we’re together all the time, man, not like we ever needed to meet up after work to shoot the breeze, but yeah, I suppose it would have made it awkward if I said no every time you were working my last nerve. Which, in case you were wondering, was pretty damn often."

"Right," Dean says. He opens the door, and stares out at the orange glow of the parking lot. Sam can smell the ozone in the air, still threatening rain. He wonders if the storm’s hit yet back on Planter's Ridge, wonders how many years it will take before the soft, wet soil drags the last remains of the statue back down into the earth where it all began. "Right," Dean says again. "Makes sense."

"Dean, you keep asking, but if you don’t wanna know this stuff…"

"No, I want to know. Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t. Not like it was hard to figure out, anyway."

"Yeah? Cause I’m not trying to hurt your feelings here, man, but sometimes it seems like telling you what the souled-up version of me used to think is just making you miserable. I have to wonder if maybe you’d be happier if you didn’t know."

"Not a girl, Sam. It’s just a question, not like I'm gonna spend the night crying into my beer." Dean pulls back from the open door to look over at Sam. He’s keeping his eyes purposely wide, gaze clear and unworried, but his fingers are tapping out an irregular rhythm on the edge of the wood. For someone who lies for a living, Dean is exceptionally easy to read for those closest to him. Sam knows that inside right now Dean is jolting with impatience, desperate to escape by climbing into the Impala and outrunning the conversation he started, music blasting and drowning out all chance of thought. Sam also knows that Dean's going to make himself suffer through the awkward moment, unable as ever to be honest, even with himself.

"Your call." Sam shrugs, and turns his attention back to the laptop. "I won't lie, Dean, because I promised you that, but if you change your mind-"

"Fuck, Sam, enough already! It was just a stupid question, and you answered it, okay?"

Sam shrugs again. "Okay, but don't say I didn't offer." It occurs to Sam moments after the door's slammed behind his brother that he maybe could go for a sandwich right about then after all. He picks up his phone, and weighs up his hunger for turkey salad against the distance Dean probably needs to get over whatever hurt their latest skirmish has caused.

He pulls up Dean's details and hits dial; he really is pretty hungry.

~*~

"Okay, Bobby, thanks." Sam drops his cell onto the table and follows it down onto the chair, already reaching for the laptop.

"Planning on sharing with the class anytime soon, Sam?" Dean is lying on the bed, his own for once, back resting against the headboard, in jeans and a t-shirt, his overshirt balled up behind him in the heat of the room. He'd rolled in sometime after two am, not quite stumbling drunk, and with the smell of tequila and cheap perfume trailing him. Once he'd face planted onto the bed, breathing easing out into gentle snores, Sam had lifted the remote up to increase the volume so he could make out Hans Grubbers' louche drawl over the sounds of Dean's muttering.

By the time Sam had returned with coffee and donuts at seven, Dean was freshly showered, and looking marginally more rested. Sam pauses to take Dean in; his hair has grown out a little over the past few weeks leaving his hair less stiff and spiky, and without one of his perennial over-shirts, Dean seems thinner than usual, heat flushed cheeks and pale freckles making him look younger too. In the soft, early morning light, Dean could be sixteen again, reclining in his bed like a king, demanding Sam finish his homework. It's briefly disorientating. Neither of them are the people they were back then, and although Sam has become accustomed to splitting himself into two separate halves, Dean has always been a constant, unchanging in his unswerving love and loyalty for family.

Sam looks over the open lid of the laptop at Dean. "Bobby says we need the statue."

"What? Fuck, Sam." Dean lurches up off the bed, already dragging on shoes and shirt. "Are you messing with me?"

Sam shakes his head, unruffled. "No, he says he has an idea, but he needs to see it before he can try to identify it for sure."

Dean swears. "What about the photos we took? Can't he use them?"

"No good, apparently. Bobby's pretty sure there's more to it, either inside the statue itself or at its base. He thinks we were just looking at an outer carving, maybe meant to protect whatever's inside."

"Inside? What the hell could be inside an old hunk of stone?"

"He's not sure, but Bobby thinks it might be..." Sam pauses, and reaches for the pad he'd been scribbling notes on, "Genii Cuculatti, also known as the Hooded Spirits."

"And what the fuck is that when it's at home?"

"Actually it's a 'they.'" Dean scowls furiously when there's no immediate elaboration, and Sam sighs; sometimes, most times, Dean has all the patience of a toddler in the candy aisle. "They," Sam continues, ignoring Dean's deepening scowl, "are a triple deity mostly found in Europe-"

"Europe? So how the hell did it end up here?"

Sam shrugs. "They're old, like, really old. Most of the carvings and statues they've found are from Britain, but they've been discovered in other places too, although on the continent they're mostly single forms usually carrying swords or daggers."

"A warrior god? That would explain all the dead bodies."

"Yeah, not so much. Even more of the figures seem to be carrying eggs, a fertility sign, or parchment and scrolls, which usually signifies wisdom or healing magic. Pretty much the only thing they all have in common is the hooded cloak they all wear. Only the face is exposed, so no one can even agree if they're male or female or a mixture of both. If fact, the only thing the lore does agree on in is that their religious significance is unclear because none of them have ever been found with an inscription."

"So why was it-why were they-hiding inside our statue?"

"No one knows that either. They're often found in the background of carvings and statues of other gods; maybe they were there first, maybe they were added there later; the point is, they're so old there's no clear answers left to be found. The only thing we can go on is similar patterns of deaths. Rufus put Bobby onto a lead about a case down in Virginia. He's digging up what he can now."

"Fuck," Dean growls. "So we can't find anything in the books, and the best and only lead we had you smashed into rubble while you were channeling Thor! Jesus, Sam, I told you we should wait!"

"It doesn't actually make any difference, Dean. We'll just go and get the pieces. If it is inside, splitting it in half will just help us get at whatever's in there, and if it's on the base, separating it from the stand is only going to make our job easier."

"Yeah, if it isn't destroyed, or if it is destroyed, if there's enough of it left for Bobby to sift through the rubble to find the parts he does need. And that's assuming trashing it like that didn't turn it into a useless bunch of supernatural rocks!"

"How about we check it out before we start panicking, Chicken Little?"

"What? What did you call me?"

Sam sighs and pulls on his coat. "Never mind. Let's just go, Dean, and figure out what we're dealing with from there."

"Forget it." Dean rams his arms into the sleeves of his own jacket with enough force to tear them from the body if the stitching had been even the tiniest bit weaker. "I'll go get the statue, just in case you're overcome with the urge to pull out a shotgun and start blasting. I'll drop you off at the coroner's office on the way. You can check if the autopsy reports are in yet."

"I told you I hacked into their files last night. Nothing's showing yet."

"So you go flash your badge and put some pressure on them, Sam." Dean's face is tight with irritation, green eyes narrowed and assessing as he waits for Sam's response.

Sam considers refusing, vaguely curious about how Dean would deal with insubordination from this new, less obedient version of a brother, but the urge isn't particularly strong, and Dean's right anyway; so far the whole town has seemed laid back to the verge of incompetent. There's every chance that without a little outside intervention the autopsy won't be ready until tomorrow, and it might actually be useful given how little else they've got to go on.

"Fine," he says. Dean deflates at the easy victory, something like disappointment in his expression.

*~*

The coroner hasn't even arrived when Sam gets there, and it takes some time to get the aged receptionist to realize just how serious Sam is when he tries to pin her down to a time he's expected back. Turns out that the guy is mostly retired, and Monday mornings he can be found down at the lake fishing. Sam leaves his card with the previously friendly, and now slightly shaken receptionist, and makes his way back to the motel. It isn't far. Nothing in the small town is.

The door has barely closed behind him when the low growl of the Impala breaks the silence. Sam is washing his hands when he hears the door crashing open, followed by the dull thud of something heavy hitting the floor.

"Dean?" he calls, reaching for a towel. He just catches the muffled sound of his name before the bathroom door slams open, handle jabbing painfully into his lower back in the too small space. "Jesus, Dean, what the hell?" Sam demands. There isn't actually enough room for Dean to fight his way in, which is what he appears to be trying to do, so Sam forces it back part way and edges around the door until he's created enough space to pull it open.

Dean is waiting inches away from the door, arm still outstretched as though he's only backed away when he was sure Sam was coming out. His face is flushed a hectic red, and he's panting heavily. If the sound of the Impala's engine wasn't as familiar to Sam as his brother's voice, he would have guessed Dean had ran all the way back from Planter's Ridge.

"O-kay," Sam says because Dean is still saying nothing. "Want to tell me what the hell happened to you, man?"

"The statue," Dean gets out, his voice rougher than usual, almost hoarse. "Something's up with it, Sam... The second I touched it-" He jerks himself away and pushes past Sam to get into the bathroom. He leaves the door wide open, and Sam watches curiously as Dean turns on the faucet, cold water blasting out and hitting white porcelain before arcing out, fine spray misting the dirty mirror and soaking Dean in an instant. Not that it matters, because Dean immediately bends at the waist and ducks his head under the icy torrent. He stays like that until he's gasping for breath and then twists the faucet off and smooths the worst of the wetness away with his free hand. Hair slicked back to his skull like a pelt, he straightens and shakes the remaining water away like a dog.

When he finally turns to face Sam, his face is pale with cold, but vivid scarlet wings are already flaring at the edges of his high cheekbones. His eyelashes are waterlogged and clinging wetly together, full lips red and bitten as the sounds of his shallow pants break the silence.

Dean shakes his head as if trying to clear it. When he moves back toward the sink, looking like he's about to repeat the process, Sam grabs him by the arm and drags him back into the main room. Dean is struggling furiously against Sam's hold, but his attempts to free himself are weak and ineffective, and Sam has no trouble guiding him over to the bed, and then urging him to sit down on it.

"Are you sick?" Sam demands. He bends down to peer into Dean's eyes, and then has to reach out to grab his chin and hold him in place when Dean immediately tries to look away.

"Don't!" Dean groans, batting weakly at Sam's hand. Sam only tightens his grip, and Dean shudders like he's run an electric current through him. "Fuck! For the love of god, Sam, don't touch me!"

"Dean. Dean!" he shouts, when Dean continues to struggle against his hold. "Stop this, and I'll let you go." It takes a moment for the words to register and then Dean stills. Sam slowly removes his hand, and Dean shivers and scoots back across the bed. He almost falls off the other side before he rights himself and then staggers over to the far wall, putting as much distance between them as the room will allow.

Unfortunately, this puts Dean too close to the door and possible escape, so Sam circles around and places himself so he's blocking the exit. Dean doesn't seem to notice and just mirrors Sam's movement to keep the distance between them intact, and then falls completely still, the only movement the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

"C'mon, Dean. You need to calm down, take a breath and tell me what's happening," Sam keeps his tone even, repeating reassurances until Dean's soft shivers start to lessen and his eyes begin to lose the wild terror glazing them. They're still painfully huge, only a tiny ridge of bright green edging the black of his irises that are blown wide. "That's it, you're doing good, Dean, real good," he praises, and Dean shudders again, and then drops his eyes closed, deep breath shushing through him.

"Went back to Planter's Ridge," Dean says finally. The words are shaky and soft, but Sam can hear every one. "Like we agreed."

"Was anyone else there?" Sam prompts when Dean lapses back into silence.

"No, nothing. No sign anyone had been there since us either."

"Okay, so you went to get the statue?"

"Yeah, yeah. It-it was right where we left it. I picked up the pieces and put them in the bag, but when I touched it..."

Dean trails off. His eyes are open wide again now, fixed on Sam. Or, more accurately, fixed on the hollow of Sam's throat, his gaze hot and hungry. Sam has seen this dark, ravenous look Dean is currently wearing once before, after he'd been turned by the alpha vampire. After Sam had allowed him to be turned by the vampire. If that's what this is, he doesn't seem to have gained any better control. If anything, this time he's worse, strung out and desperate after what can only be less than a few hours since the infection set in. Sam mentally measures the distance from where he is to the shared bag Dean used, pictures the flask of holy water in the side pocket, counts out exactly how many steps he'll have to make to reach it, how many seconds it will take before he can have it open and douse Dean with the contents.

He edges toward the bag, surprised when Dean makes no move to stop him. "What happened next?" The bag's within reach, and Sam pauses to reassess. Dean is completely uninterested in his actions. He's obviously aware that Sam's up to something, because he's tracking Sam's every move, but if he's worried at all, it's not showing on Dean's face.

"The second I touched it. I knew there was something wrong," Dean says, voice soft. "It was like fire, a thousand needles running through my body, but it disappeared almost as soon as it came. Hurt like a son of a bitch for a while, but then that went away, too, and now I just feel..." he trails off, gaze distracted and inward looking.

Sam hesitates and reconsiders his initial hypothesis. Whatever has happened to Dean, it starting to look more like it's linked to the statue, except that Sam had touched it himself-before he'd taken the sledgehammer to it-and he'd experienced nothing like Dean's describing. Of course, it could be that splitting it in two had released something, something powerful going by Dean's reaction to it. Maybe the Genii Cucullati like Bobby suspected. It still doesn't tie-in with whatever had caused the three men to kill their wives and then themselves though, because the statue had been undamaged then.

So maybe it isn't one of the usual supernatural culprits causing whatever is going on with Dean, but he has to be sure, so Sam reaches down to unzip the bag and pulls out the holy water. "Dean, I need to try something, okay?" he asks, and holds out the flask to let Dean see exactly what it is before slowly uncapping it. Dean watches him, gaze barely shifting from Sam's hands as they unscrew the lid. He only looks up when Sam takes a measured step toward him. "Ready, Dean?"

Dean nods slowly. He's biting on his bottom lip, breath held in anticipation. When the water droplets hit him he throws back his head and bares his throat, like he's under a cold shower on a scorching hot day, but apart from that initial reactions he's otherwise unaffected. Sam purses his lips, and slowly recaps the flask. It's what he was expecting, but it's annoying nonetheless, because it means he's back to square one.

Dean has edged forward while Sam has been thinking, and Sam examines his brother carefully. Dean's face is flushed hectic red, all paleness burnt away. He must be throwing out heat, because his previously sodden hair is already almost dry, fluffy and flat to his head at the front, and sticking up at the back where the gel has set in too firm for the water to wash away. "How do you feel right now, Dean?"

"Hot," Dean says immediately. "Like my blood's boiling in my veins. And itchy. Insanely goddamn itchy," he says as if he's only just realized it, and then he starts dragging his clothes off. Sam allows it until Dean's down to just boxers and t-shirt, and then holds out a hand.

"I think that's probably enough." For a second, Dean's mouth tilts mulishly, but then he nods in slow agreement. His fingers pluck fretfully at the soft fabric of his t-shirt, and then duck down until his thumb nudges under the waistband of his boxers, scratching at the skin Sam can see in that brief glimpse is as flushed and heated as his face. Sam's gaze drops lower, and he's almost unsurprised to see Dean is hard in his shorts, dick pushing urgently against the dark fabric, a small wet spot already darkening the front where he's leaking.

Dean follows his gaze. He seems torn between embarrassed and blatant. "And horny," Dean says, voice pitched low. "Really fucking horny." Sam quirks an eyebrow, and Dean drops his gaze, another darker red flush of color washing over him.

"Yeah, I think I picked up on that," Sam says, mind working furiously. "We should call Bobby, see if he's any further along in figuring out what we're up against here. Oh, and take some photos of the statue to send him, see if we can find anything inside."

Dean's making halfhearted sounds of agreement and moving reluctantly toward the bag holding the broken statue pieces, when a sudden flash of light explodes in the room leaving Sam blinking away the after-burn furiously. Sam hits the floor and reaches out exploring fingers until he finds the weapons bag and drags it toward him to pull out the sawn-off with one smooth move. He's back on his feet just as his vision begins to clear, to find Dean practically plastered against a dark robbed figure, and rutting happily up into his side. The figure is running his fingers softly through Dean's hair, stroking him like he's a treasured pet.

"Dean, get the fuck away from him!" Sam shouts, sawn-off raised and ready.

"Sam," the hooded figure turns to say, soft rebuke in it's lilting tone. Now that it's directly in front of him, Sam can make out more of its face under the shadow of the deep cowl. If this is one of Bobby's Genii Cucullati, it's clear it's only very loosely based it's appearance on the human form. The creature's face is barely sketched out under the ledge of a heavy brow; rough features holding only a vague impression of a nose, mouth a shallow slash and fathomless dark eyes like holes in the snow. It's hideous and mesmerizing all at the same time, and Sam in finding it almost impossible to look away. "Is that any way to speak to your brother?"

Sam hesitates, because whatever it is, it's clearly not lacking in intelligence, nor is it running on instinct like most of the creatures they face. He also has no doubt it could snap Dean's neck in those huge slabs of hands he can see edging out of the robe's sleeves before he's even got off a single shot.

"Smart." The creature smiles, if it can even be called a smile. "I've heard it said. I am relieved to find it's still true."

"What do you want?" Sam asks. He lowers the shotgun to take the strain off his arm, but keeps his finger close to the trigger.

"Until last night, Samuel Winchester, I would have said nothing from you. Now? Well now it's a different matter."

Dean's gentle rocking is picking up pace, and the creature pauses to tug gently on his hair in rebuke. Dean groans out a protest, but slows his movements.

"Okay, enough with the cryptic bullshit. How about you get to the point and save us both some time, unless you're enjoying Dean rubbing one out against you?"

The thing laughs, the sound surprisingly warm and human-sounding. "Sex is my bread and butter, Sam. Wouldn't make sense to be squeamish about it, now would it? And in any case, Dean here is so beautifully responsive. How could anyone say no to such bounty?" He palms Dean's head in his hand, and Dean leans into the touch, almost purring with pleasure.

Sam frowns at the picture they make, and surreptitiously shifts the weight of the shotgun in his hands while the Genii seems distracted with molesting Dean. "You obviously know a lot about us," Sam says, and the creature turns his head toward him and away from Dean. "Which means you probably also know I'm missing a soul, so if you're hoping to get some sort of response from me with whatever the hell this is, you're going to have to do a lot better."

"I can't exactly help this," the Genii says, stroking loving fingers over the shell of Dean's ear. Dean whimpers, eyes falling shut in bliss. "All that power streaming out of the statue you destroyed; it has to go somewhere, Sam."

"Your statue?" Sam guesses.

"Mine and my sisters. We're one of three. No longer that now, of course." There's banked fury in the creature's voice, but it's hand on Dean remains gentle, and is somehow all the more dangerous for it. "Did you stop to wonder, Sam, what you were destroying last night?"

"Six innocent people dead? Yeah, I stopped to wonder, same as every hunt, and then made damn sure I did it right."

The creature hisses and pushes Dean away from him hard enough that he loses his footing and lands in a sprawl on the bed. He immediately spreads his legs and ruts against the bedspread. Sam's own bed, he notices with a grimace.

"Your arrogance will be your undoing, Sam," the Genii says, his voice cold and echoing, as if it's coming from the center of the earth. "My sisters and I had existed for millennia until you and your brother challenged the heavens. Your refusal to accept your fate sent the balance of the universe spinning out of control. My sister's gifts became unstable, beyond her ability to control. Dangerous. Before you, her gifts were pure; new life freely given to those who longed for it, but that power increased tenfold, slipped free of its chains to seek out those that would be blessed by chance instead of prayer. Women with no desire to fill their wombs, hungry suddenly and uncaring of whether a stranger's seed carries out the task, leaving their true mate cuckolded, the power fueling the fury and wrath until it must surely destroy them all. Tell me, is it my sister's fault, Sam, that her power was so corrupted or should the blame be laid elsewhere?"

Sam breathes in through his nose, shaking his head in denial. "If we caused this, then I'm sorry, but that doesn't mean we were wrong to stop it once people started dying."

"My sister needed only time, Sam."

"Yeah, well her time was up, and that's why this world has hunters; to stop the monsters who can't stop themselves."

"So easy for you," the creature hisses, "without a soul, everything so perfectly clear and uncluttered by emotion. Would you find it so easy, I wonder, if the tables were turned? If you suffered as we have?"

"If you're expecting me to feel sorry for a monster, then you're going to have a long wait."

"There's a balance, Sam, good and evil. One can't exist without the other, and if you try, if you succeed there won't be much of anything for long." Sam raises a sardonic eyebrow, and the Genii shakes his head, something close to pity on it's inhuman face. On the bed across the room, Dean is panting like a cat in heat. Sam ignores the sounds he's making and keeps his gaze trained on the Genii.

"Flood, famine, pandemics? If you hunters are so dead set against sharing this planet with the supernatural world, then believe me when I tell you that the natural world is more than willing to fill the gap. But its power is ancient, eternal and completely immune to the spells and rituals and petty religions you deal in."

"So you want us to stop hunting monsters, and, more specifically right now, you, and all that messy Mother Nature crap is gonna vanish?" Sam shrugs and switches the shotgun to his other hand. "Yeah, I don't think that's happening."

"Very well, then perhaps a lesson on balance will help change your mind. A life for a life-Dean's to be precise-and just to make sure it actually means something to you..."

The Genii reaches forward, the movement faster than Sam can follow, until he feels the press of the creature's left hand held firm against his chest, setting off a dull ache.

Sam jerks angrily away, shotgun raised in an instant and pointed where the creature's face had been, only to find the Genii has already moved back out of range.

"What the fuck did you do?" Sam demands, rubbing at his chest. He doesn't feel any different, but if he's just been hit him with same whammy as Dean-

"A gift, but that's for later. Right now you have more pressing matters, Sam." He nods toward Dean, who's sitting upright now and watching the scene unfold through fever-bright eyes.

"Our statue was destroyed by your hand, causing my sister's power to spill out into the world unchecked. Your brother took the full brunt of what remained."

"Which means?" Sam snarls, patience worn to breaking point.

"That for every minute that passes, the fever takes a tighter hold on him until eventually he'll burn up from the inside."

"Wait, this isn't what happened to the others." Sam glances over toward Dean and finds him watching them unblinking.

"We were able to help my sister control her gift, guide the power toward suitable females even if they hadn't asked for her intervention, but now that there is nothing left to keep it in check, it will run its course, Sam, and destroy all in it's path."

"Is there a cure?" Sam asks teeth gritted against the anger rising in him, furious that he's forced to beg for crumbs.

The Genii's dark-robed shoulders lift in what Sam assumes is a shrug. "Sex, of course."

Sam waits, sure it's not that easy. He's immediately proved right.

"But not with just anyone, Sam, with his true partner, his soul mate, or the hunger will never be assuaged."

"Me?" Sam asks, not really needing an answer. "That's not-I'm his brother!" On the bed, Dean lets out a garbled protest, his voice filled with horror.

The Genii's lips shift, sketching out a smile, horrible and hollow. "Impossible perhaps for the old you, but the new I'm sure will have no problem at all."

"No problem fucking my own brother? What kind of freak do you think I am?"

"It doesn't matter what I think, Sam, it only matters what you can do. And it will have to be without our assistance, I fear. Without your soul, you're immune to my sister's power."

Sam grimaces. Great; he won't even have the equivalent of the magical aphrodisiac Dean's apparently mainlining to get him through this. Thoughts of Dean send his glance winging toward the bed. Dean looks almost completely out of it, lying on his side, silent mutters shaping his lips and sweat pouring off him so his t-shirt clings damply. His boxers are tented at the front, although he's wet enough that Sam wonders if he's managed to get himself off already.

"Dean is primed and ready for mating. Are you going to leave him to his suffering, Sam?"

"Sam, no," Dean rouses to mutter. "Can't...brother..."

Sam looks at the Genii, sees the dark joy of vengeance gleaming in it's face, and Sam smiles a slow, mocking smile of his own. He reaches up and begins unbuttoning his shirt with sure hands. "You're right," he says and shrugs out of his shirt. "The new me has no problem with all sorts of things."

The creature nods, and the hood of his robe falls lower until all Sam can see is the twist of his lips. "Well, then I shall leave you to your privacy for now, but I will return, Sam."

"I'm counting on it," Sam says, equally pleasant, and then the creature is gone.

Sam efficiently strips out of his clothing and places it neatly on the chair, and then walks over to his bag to pull out the lube he knows he has stashed there. He doesn't bother with condoms; he doubts somehow that the spell can be broken without both of them actually coming. They're clean anyway; Dean drummed the importance of protection into his horny kid brother's head long before Sam ever really took an interest in girls, and it's one he's never forgotten.

When Sam reaches Dean's side, Dean is back to mumbling and dry humping the bed. Sam bends down to sweep the flat of his palm across Dean's back, and Dean jolts, awareness returning to his gaze when he turns to find Sam standing over him, naked.

"Christ, no," Dean moans, and tries to push himself off the bed. Sam easily subdues him and then drops down on the bed next to him.

"Sorry, Dean," Sam says, "but we're kind of out of options here."

"You can't, Sam. Can't fucking fuck me. Can't fuck your brother!"

"That's exactly why I am doing it, Dean, because you're my brother. How many years have you been telling me family is everything, that the sacrifice is worth it, whatever the price? I might not be feeling it in the same way anymore, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't mean much if we bail when things get tough."

"Tough?" Dean's laugh is strangled, but he's already reaching out, hands hot and sticky as he rubs the pads of his fingers across the bare skin of Sam's torso. "Not tough," he moans, "impossible."

"Remember when you used to make me eat my lima beans?" Sam asks, and lies back to allow Dean's exploring fingers access. It feels surprisingly good, if he's honest. He's never really been attracted to men before, and Dean is his brother, which still means something; not much, maybe, but something. He'd thought he was going to have to get through this with closed eyes and memories of past encounters to block out the unpleasant reality, but it looks like touch is touch, and Dean is objectively hot after all. Maybe this is going to be easier than Sam had first thought.

Just as he's reached that pleasant conclusion, Dean starts struggling again, pushing Sam away only to pull him closer with low, unhappy moans. Sam reaches out to run his hand along Dean's flank, a facsimile of tenderness, easier than words, and feels Dean's muscles jumping under the touch. "I hated those beans," Sam continues softly, "but you said they'd make me grow up big and strong, waited me out till I'd eaten every last one because you're my big brother and you were looking out for me. And you were right, Dean, 'cause look at me now."

Dean raises drugged eyes to meet Sam's, and then drops his gaze to take in the clearly defined pecks and biceps rippling with muscles that make it painfully easy for Sam to subdue Dean's latest halfhearted attempts to escape, and push him over onto his back. Sam settles himself between Dean's legs to prevent them closing him out. "So that's why I'm doing this; because it's my turn to do what's best for you. Maybe you won't like it, but you'll be alive tomorrow."

"Bobby," Dean mutters, hips lifting to thrust the hard length of his still covered dick against the cut of Sam's hipbone. "Bobby'll know what t'do," he slurs.

Sam shrugs, and grasps the bottom of Dean's t-shirt to drag it over his head. "Maybe, but not in the next couple of hours, and I don't know that you have more than that."

"No!" Dean rouses himself to place the palms of his hands flat against Sam's naked chest and push. It has about as much effect as a kitten trying to dislodge an elephant, and Sam reaches down to grab Dean by the wrists and position his hands above his head. "Don't do this, Sammy," Dean begs. "Rather be dead. I'll never forgive you, never..."

Dean's still muttering, thrashing weakly against him, as Sam reaches over to pull Dean's boxers down his thighs. Dean's dick springs free, curving towards his tautly held stomach, flushed a deep, dusky purple. Sam considers it for a moment, not entirely sure that he's willing to touch it, and then leans forward to grasp it in his hand. Dean's dick is hard, burning against his palm and already wet with the copious amounts of precome he's leaking. The sensation's not bad, no different really from Sam holding his own dick, and he tightens his grip and starts up a steady rhythm. When Dean's last objections melt away into panted moans, Sam can finally release the hold his left hand still has on Dean's wrists, and turn his attention to dragging pillows from the top of the bed and positioning them under Dean's hips.

Sam snaps open the lube, liberally coats his fingers, and then moves down to shoulder Dean's thighs apart. Dean shivers when the lube-coated finger circles his tight opening, and Sam adds a little more pressure. "You're being so good, Dean, letting me do this. Know it's for your own good, don't you? " Sam mutters approvingly, most of his attention focused on the impossibly small opening to Dean's body. It's hard to believe he'll fit in there, hard to believe Dean will be able to take him.

With the first press of his fingers, Dean's panting picks up pace, harsh sobbing breaths escaping him. Sam rubs the palm of his hand soothingly along Dean's hipbone, but if anything the sounds become even more desperate, so Sam reverts back to his original plan of getting Dean prepped as quickly as possible so he can move on to the fucking.

When Sam's long finger completely breaches him, Dean's whole body freezes and then jerks back into the penetration. "Is that good?" Sam looks up from in-between Dean's thighs to ask. "Do you want more, or should I stretch you for longer with just one first?" Sam shakes his head when Dean begins babbling nonsense. "Never mind," he mutters, and sets up a careful rhythm, pushing all the way in, before dragging his finger out, brushing the pad of his finger curiously against the silken smooth flesh of Dean's insides with each sweep. Dean is tight, very tight, and Sam's glad he decided to take this slowly.

By the time Sam has progressed to three fingers, Dean is sucking in deep gulps of air, whole body shivering against the new stretch and his knees pulled up tight against his own chest. "God, Dean," Sam huffs out. "Can't believe how hungry you are for this, how much your little hole loves being filled. Bet you've done this before. Picked up some hitchhiker back when I was in college and Dad was off chasing demons, let him bend you over and fuck you till you couldn't walk straight."

"Never," Dean rouses himself to say. "Never done this before, Sammy."

"Yeah," Sam agrees, thrusting deep and reaching for the bundle of nerves that sends Dean's hips flying up from bed, only the hard press of Sam's forearm across his hips keeping him in place. "Yeah, tight as you are, you probably didn't even know how much you'd love this." With one final sweep, Sam pulls his fingers free and wipes them on the sheets. In front of him, Dean's hole looks puffy and a little red, muscle twitching weakly as if it's desperately trying to draw Sam back inside. Sam reaches out and swipes his thumb across the thick smear of lube glistening against the rim of Dean's hole, and then sits back on his heels to the sounds of Dean's low moans.

Dean's too out of it to realize what's happening as Sam pulls him up onto his knees, coaxing him gently into the position Sam wants, until finally he's upright, blinking dazedly, breath heaving out through softly parted lips. Dean's mouth is full and pretty, and Sam's never kissed another guy before, so he bends down to lick exploringly at the edges of Dean's dry lips. Dean reaches out and grasps Sam's biceps, hanging on as Sam deepens the kiss, fucking his tongue into Dean's mouth and then pulling back to nip at the plump lower lip. Dean's nipples are equally intriguing, and it isn't long before Sam's teeth and fingers have left them sore-looking and standing to attention, Dean mewling softly at the sharp jolts of pleasure/pain. When Sam pulls back this time, Dean is practically vibrating with need, thrusting desperately against the jut of Sam's thigh.

"Dean, hey, Dean," Sam says, pushing Dean just far enough away that he can see his eyes. "Need you to do something for me, okay? Okay, Dean?" he presses when Dean begins to sway blindly toward him.

"'Kay," Dean murmurs, and then freezes when Sam begins to urge his head down toward Sam's lap and his straining dick. It's already hard, he doesn't really need any extra help, but he's hungry now to try everything, and Dean's so fucking eager, it's not like he's going to object. "Sammy?" Dean says, and Sam pushes a little firmer.

"C'mon, Dean, I know you want to." Dean's still for so long that Sam's about to call the whole thing off, when he suddenly gives a small nod. And then he's angling his head as hands slippery with sweat slide down Sam's sides to latch onto his hips.

"Fuck," Sam hisses out as Dean's soft lips take him in, hesitant and slow, but quickly picking up speed. Despite the happy sounds he's making, Dean is only barely taking the head of Sam's dick, and amazing though that sensation is, Sam wants more. He reaches out to stroke tender fingers along the edges of Dean's jawbone, and then slides around to take a firm grasp on the back of his head, feeding Dean another inch of his cock, and then another, groaning at the sensation of hot wet heat sucking him down.

The sudden rush of heat along his spine is all the warning Sam needs, and he's jerking Dean's head back and pushing him down onto the bed, Dean muttering protests the whole time.

"Sorry," Sam says roughly, "don't want to waste this though," he says indicating his erection, and then has to grab quickly at the base of his dick to prevent the threatening orgasm sweeping over him when Dean starts pawing frantically at him.

Sam grabs Dean's wrists with his unoccupied hand to push them back up against his head. Dean's undulating against the bed, but Sam's got just enough control by now to position him with his legs spread wide and hips pushed up by the pillows he's quickly pushing back beneath him. Once Dean is finally arranged to his satisfaction, Sam pours out enough lube to carefully coat his dick, and then he's falling down onto Dean, positioning the head of his cock at Dean's entrance and then pushing in on a hard thrust.

Dean howls, thighs desperately trying to push Sam out-or pull him closer, Sam's not sure-and so he reaches down to hook Dean's knees open with his elbows and dig in. Dean's head is thrashing from side to side on his pillow and his hands are clawing at Sam's back as Sam pulls out and lunges back into Dean's tight heat. "Fuck, Dean," Sam mutters, "so tight, can't believe you're still this tight. Need to get deeper," he growls, pushing Dean's thighs even higher. "You have to let me, Dean, need to be in you."

Dean lets out a sobbing breath, and then suddenly Sam is sliding in balls-deep, pounding desperately into Dean while Dean clutches at him and rocks up to meet the thrusts. Dean is impossibly hot, the tightness surrounding Sam almost painful, but he couldn't stop now if God himself appeared at the foot of the bed. Instead, Sam rears up on his knees to bend Dean almost in two and continues to pump strongly into him, the headboard banging rhythmically in time to his thrusts.

Dean's pants mingle with Sam's own and Sam can feel sweat dripping from him; half from exertion, half from the furnace like heat Dean is transmitting. Dean's whole body shakes with each jolting thrust, muttering words that are impossible to make out under his breath. Sam ignores them and adjusts his angle until Dean is reduced to weak sobs of pleasure, grunting softly in time with each rough thrust.

The pleasure is mind-blowing, but Sam isn't sure how much longer he can last so he reaches down to take a firm hold of Dean's cock. He barely manages one rough jerk before Dean stiffens, whole body frozen and bowed in pleasure as he comes like a geyser, milky white fluid shooting up to coat his chest and abdomen.

As Dean's orgasm sweeps through his body, his inner muscles gripping Sam's cock contract wildly, and Sam buries himself with a final hard thrust, coming long and deep inside Dean for what seems like impossibly long minutes, hips jerking through the aftershocks.

Dean's is practically comatose when Sam finally stills and collapses on top of him. It's an actual risk that he could suffocate Dean if he doesn't move at some point soon, so Sam pulls out on a pained hiss, feeling like he's left half the skin of his dick behind. Dean's thighs fall open against the bed, boneless. He looks utterly debauched and Sam watches curiously as a soft flood of come trickles out of his puffy hole. Without thinking, Sam reaches down to push it carefully back in, repeating the motion until Dean's hole begins to flutter closed, and Sam relaxes back against the bed, oddly satisfied at the thought of his come resting deep inside Dean's body.

The bed is a mess, the air ripe with the smell of sweat and sex. Sam briefly considers getting up to find a cloth to clean them up with, or just climbing into the shower, but he's suddenly overcome with tiredness.

It's been so long since he's felt the sensation, that for a moment he's not sure what's happening, but the soft drag of months of endless days has him firmly in it's grasp, and Sam closes his eyes and sleeps.

Chapter 2