A Look From You and I Would Fall from Grace 1/5

[nu_breed]

Master Post

He doesn't get rid of the body straight away. Just sits Dean in the passenger seat and starts driving.

It amazes Sam how quickly Dean's body is ceasing to be him. It's cold and dead, and he can feel his brother slipping away from him more and more every second. Pretty soon he’ll just be a thing, an empty vessel, and Sam really doesn't think he's ready for that. Not yet.

Sam reaches into the glove compartment and sticks the first tape he grabs into the player. It's unlabeled, one of Dean's crapass, cock-rock mixtapes and with Jani Lane warbling about Heaven, an irony that’s inescapable, he takes the first right out of Broward County.

When the opening chords of track three start up and Sam realizes it's Heat of the Moment, he hits eject and throws the damn thing out the window. It's too late though. It’s cemented in his brain like Bad Medicine, which he was murdering at his dorm's karaoke party the night he met Jess, and Welcome to the Black Parade which was playing on his iPod the night Dean came back from whatever seedy bar he was drinking at, pulled him in and kissed him for the first time.

Sam glances over at Dean, at his body. One look at that mouth and he swears he can still feel the imprint of those lips on his. He can still remember the taste, masked by cigarettes and whiskey but underneath it all, Dean.

Sam knows if he kissed Dean now, though, his lips wouldn't be soft and warm and pliant. They'd be cool, immobile. He tries to grip the steering wheel tight but his hands slip, Dean's blood on his hands smearing the leather and he can't help himself. He cries fat, wet tears that drip down his face.

Dean's always ragged him about the crying. Not that Sam cries very often, but he's always been a messy crier. Tears and snot and noisy sobbing; not manly, silent tears like Dean and his father. Sam can remember how the two of them used to cry every time November 2nd rolled around, with their silent, clean, masculine pain.

"Real men cry, Sammy," he remembers Dean saying when Sam'd turned ten, "they just don't make a big song and dance about it, y'know?"

Sam had nodded and buried his face in his pillow till the pillowcase was soaked. He hadn't wanted Dean to think he wasn't a real man.

But Sam's the only one left now and he can cry as loud and as messy as he wants to, so he does. He parks on the side of the road and sobs so hard he can't breathe, sobs for ten minutes or so and then just... stops. When he swallows, he can taste it - the tears, the pain -- and he wonders when he looks at his brother's blood-soaked, lifeless corpse beside him, if this is going to be the last time he'll cry over Dean. If this'll be the last time he'll cry over anything ever again.

It very well could be. Sam doesn't feel much of anything anymore.

***

Ruby turns up at his motel room on Thursday night. She doesn't even blink when he asks her to help him brand Dean's amulet into his lower back before they incinerate the body.

Sam lifts it from around Dean's neck and presses it into Ruby's hand. He tries not to let his fingers skim across Dean's skin while he's pulling the amulet off. He doesn't succeed and the touch is like a jolt that goes right through him, reminds him of what Dean felt like under his hands.

Like he could ever forget.

He takes a few seconds, watches the way the flames dance upwards from the bonfire, and pulls his t-shirt off. The night air bites at his skin, leaves gooseflesh, but he can feel the heat radiating from the pyre and shivers when he thinks about how much it's going to burn.

"Here," Ruby undoes her belt, pulls it out of the loops and hands it to Sam. "You'll need this. For the pain."

"No." Sam pushes her hand away, shakes his head. He lies facedown on the ground and turns his head to the side, watching as her expression goes cloudy. "I wanna feel it."

She shrugs, dangles the amulet into the fire for what feels like forever. Straddling his hips, Ruby's fingers skate the scar Jake left him with, the scar that Dean damned himself for. It stings, tingles, itches like fuck, while her other hand presses the amulet hard into the small of his back, searing his skin.

The branding doesn't hurt. Not one bit. It should, should hurt like a fucking bitch and he doesn't know what to make of the fact that it doesn't. Ruby raises an eyebrow, and he can see she knows exactly what's going through his head. He doesn't want to know what she has to say about it, either.

He gets up and pulls his shirt back on. That should hurt too. It seems unfair to Sam that it doesn't.

Sam watches as Dean's body goes up in flames and he can't stop the tears streaming down his face. It's different now, though, silent and clean. He doesn't feel sad, either, he's just... numb. All the way down to his bones.

Ruby tells him the Trickster's been sighted in Atlanta. He thanks her and leaves, ignoring her rushed, "Sam? You want some company?"

He doesn't want to be rude, but he'd rather gut her with her own knife.

***

He misses the Trickster, but finds a succubus in its wake, and after he wastes the thing, he unwinds with Jäger shots at the nearest dive bar. He orders four shots each round and only drinks two of them. It burns on its way down, and Sam can't remember when he last ate. Might've been the coffee and Danish he had in Savannah, but he can't be sure.

"You drinking alone?" The bartender grins at him, "or are those for me?"

Sam shakes his head. "Sorry. They're for someone else."

"I'll bet." She's leaning forward, smoky eyeliner making her look even more like sin, tube top hugging her breasts. Sam has to force himself to look away.

"I get off in ten minutes," she whispers.

He fucks her behind the dumpster outside. Her name's Cindy and she looks a lot like Jess. Tall, blonde with tiny moles on her face and a waist so small he feels like he might break her when he pushes inside.

She asks him about his scars, and he slams into her. Fucks her harder. That way she won't have the breath to ask him any more questions he doesn't want to answer.

When she comes he realizes she isn't like Jess at all. Cindy is Dean's type. What used to be his type. Sam thinks about how Dean would've fucked her, whether it would've been like this, her skirt pushed up and her ankles locked around his back, or whether he would've pushed her facedown on a motel bed, like he used to do to Sam.

Sam comes fast and mutters a 'thank you' under his breath. Tries to pretend it isn't the image of Dean the night they got into Broward, the sense memory of the carpet scratching his knees, and Dean's fingers digging into his hips, that gets Sam off so fast.

He walks away, doesn't look back. Just leaves her there and stumbles his way back to the bar, throws up in the nearest trashcan. She's the first Sam's had since... just since. Feels like it's been years, but it's only been two days.

***

He dreams that night. He's facedown on the backseat of the Impala and Dean's kissing the back of his neck, tracing a long line down Sam's spine with his tongue.

When he reaches the brand he stops, runs his fingers over it and whispers, "You do this because of me, Sammy?"

Sam nods. "Had to." Dean traces the outline of the brand with his lips, and Sam whimpers, has to stop himself from grinding his cock against the seat. He wants this to last. "Wanted something I could touch. Touch and think of you. Couldn't keep the amulet, though. Hurt too much."

Dean sighs against Sam's lower back and Sam can feel warm breath ghosting over the leathery patch of skin. It makes him want to rub against Dean like a fucking cat in heat, get Dean's scent all over him so he never has to forget what he smells like.

"Want you, Dean. Need you in me. Need to remember..." Sam's voice sounds like someone else's. It's raspy and low, and desperate and Sam almost can't stand to be like this, but he can't bring himself to care.

Dean laughs, once, but there's no humor in it. He just sounds hollow and sad. He flips Sam over and shakes his head, careful, deliberate. Dean kisses him, deep and slow, like he's taking his time exploring Sam's mouth again, relearning his taste.

"Time to go, Sammy. You can't stay. You know that."

"But," Sam starts.

"No." Dean's voice is firm, just like John's when Sam used to argue with him, and isn't that an awkward thought to be having right now? "You have to, Sam. I need to sleep now, and you have to wake up. There are people who still need you."

Sam wants to yell at him, hit him, tell him that he doesn't care who needs him, but he's blinking awake to the sound of some annoyingly perky breakfast DJ and he's hard as hell.

Alone.

He tries everything he can think of to go back to sleep, to pretend it isn't over. Squeezes his eyes shut, prays, tries an old meditation trick he picked up at Stanford, but no dice.

He's wide awake, and Dean's gone and it's all completely fucking pointless.

Sam's insanely thirsty, so he drinks from the glass of water at his bedside. He gets up, makes his bed with crisp, hospital corners, and walks to the bathroom, the carpet rough against the soles of his feet. Steps under the steaming heat of the shower, jerks off with the water hitting his brand, and bites down on the name he so desperately wants to cry out when he comes.

***

Bobby arrives two hours later. Sam hasn't spoken to him since before Broward, and part of him feels bad for not being on the phone to him as soon as Dean's heart stopped pumping. After all, Bobby's the closest thing to a father they, he, has, but these last few days have been about him and Dean, and he wasn't willing to share that with anyone else. Not even Bobby.

"You want coffee?" Sam turns away, anything to ignore the look Bobby's giving him. He's seen that look before, on his father's face. Disappointment.

"Coffee? Nah. If you've got some whiskey, though..."

Sam nods. Makes for the table and the half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Black. Dean's favorite, and Sam's lost count of the number of times they'd held each other up after far too many rounds, when Dean'd had a particularly successful night of hustling pool. Remembers how it tasted too, the bitter tang of Johnnie on Dean's tongue and lips as he kissed Sam breathless.

He pours himself a shot and one for Bobby and sits down at the table, rubbing his forehead.

"Black label, Sam? At ten o'clock in the morning?" Bobby's expression looks like disapproval, and Sam should've known Bobby was being a sneaky fucker and testing him. "You really are takin' after your brother." Bobby shakes his head and Sam feels about eight years old. "Found him in a similar state a few months ago, myself, y'know."

Sam blinks. Looks down at the stains at the carpet, the names etched into the table, anything to avoid Bobby's eyes.

"I. I wanted to call, Bobby. I just. I couldn't."

Bobby reaches out, squeezes Sam's shoulder. "I know, kid. But how d'ya think it felt to find out on my own?"

Sam nods. Chucks his shot back and wipes his mouth with his hand. He feels the alcohol burn through his chest, waking him up, making him focus. It narrows everything down to here and now. Allows him to take his mind off the dreams he can't control, and the things he no longer has in reality. Even if it is just for a minute or two.

He isn't capable of forgetting Dean for much longer than that.

Bobby pulls him into a hug, murmurs things like: "So sorry, son," and, "Dean was something special," and, "Your daddy's watching over him. You know that."

But all Sam knows is that that’s bullshit, that Bobby knows it too. Knows Dean isn't with his Dad at all. Dean's burning, in pain, suffering torment on top of torment and it's all his fault. Nobody else to blame for that damn Trickster's morbid sense of humor. Sam's struck with a desire to tear the fucker limb from limb, demi-god or not. Do it, or die trying.

"The Trickster," he says, his thumbnail picking at a gouge in the tabletop. "Where do I find him?"

"Y'don't." Bobby's eyes narrow. "Not yet. Not like this, Sam. The last thing I want is to watch you go off on some half-cocked damn fool Winchester suicide mission." He downs his own shot and stares Sam right in the eyes when he sets down his glass.

"Bobby," Sam's voice goes deep and electric, cracking like a warning.

"You're not your daddy, Sam, and you're not Dean. I always said you had more sense."

Well, I don't, he wants to say. Not anymore. I can't do this alone. Just can't.

Yeah, well I don't want to.

Instead he just nods, and says, "Lay off the Trickster. Got it."

Bobby's eyes narrow. If it'd been Dean, Bobby wouldn't've believed it for a second. But Dean was always a terrible liar, and Sam's always been the convincing one. All it takes is a lopsided grin and a hint of sincerity, and Bobby's folding just like anyone else would. Just like a deck of playing cards.

"Anyway, if you're really itching for a hunt, there's a demon running a whorehouse in Memphis." He pauses, grin spreading across his aging face. "So I've heard."

Sam can almost hear his brother groaning in protest at having to miss out. If any case was ever handmade for Dean, it's this one.

***

Sam doesn't dream that night. He hovers on the edge of sleep for hours; alcohol and grief buzzing around in his brain and he's aware of everything around him: the insects singing in the trees, the awful, cloying heat, sheets strapped like restraints across him, and the dull thud-thud of his heart.

It's the universe's way of fucking with him, and part of him wonders if the Trickster's somewhere watching, laughing at him for being the fool who can’t move past all of it, stuck in wakefulness, instead of where he wants to be, holding onto his brother in dreams.

Sam turns on his side; right, then left. The digits on the alarm clock keep changing. He could've sworn it was 3.30 an hour ago. He toys with the idea of getting up and draining the whiskey bottle dry, drinking himself into a coma because maybe then he'd at least get some fucking sleep. Problem is, that would entail moving, and he's so damn tired he can't even be bothered getting out of bed.

At least he can use the ever-present stolen prescription pad to get himself some pills. That'll help. He can't deal with too many nights like this; lack of sleep, the lack of Dean, it all makes his gut ache.

He finally drifts off at around five, the sky just turning a runny blue, but his sleep is restless and he wakes an hour later with a bitter taste in his mouth, and an ache in the pit of his stomach he knows he won't be able to shake.

***

Sam hits the case Bobby mentioned. Something to preoccupy himself with other than sitting around the motel room, counting ceiling tiles, pretending to sleep.

The Blue Door is an old-fashioned brothel. All oak furniture and red velvet cushions, girls dressed in classy lingerie. The subtitle on the business cards reads "Gentlemen’s Club" and Sam wonders why these places bother trying to hide exactly what they are. He knows why of course. There’s always the illegality, but there’s also the guilt and the shame; fine pillars of any society.

Sam's perspective's a little different, though. He remembers when Jess started volunteering at the Prostitute's Collective, remembers some of the workers she introduced him to. Like Beth, the girl that could've passed for a Stanford grad any day and Ryan, the wise-ass methhead who reminded Sam a little too much of Dean. Once Jess'd got through with him, whoring didn't have any mystique, and it wasn't taboo, either.

So standing there at the bar, seeing the girls swarming around the mostly pathetic, buttoned-down types, Sam can’t feel embarrassed. He feels empty. Just like he always has since he dropped the match and watched his brother burn.

Hunting had never been fun, but it used to be exhilarating, at least. Sam never got the hard-on for it that Dean did, it wasn't his reason for getting out of bed in the morning, but it used to matter. Now it seems like he may as well be punching a card. Without Dean it’s so completely pointless. Much like everything else.

The woman approaching him is cute, Sam thinks abstractly. Petite and pretty, a perfect ass, the kind Dean would talk about for hours, whether Sam wanted to hear about it or not.

Especially if he didn't.

"Hey, darlin'," she drawls, one finger tracing up and down Sam's arm, "I'm Stacey. You see something you like?"

Sam grins. "I like you," he whispers in her ear, laying on the fake charm as thick as he can manage without making himself ill, "but what I'd really like is for you to take me to see your boss."

Her eyes widen, and the confident sexuality is replaced second by second with nerves and fear.

"I. I don't think I can do that," she stammers. She picks at the fraying edge of her slip, avoids his eyes.

"Aw, c'mon." Sam brushes her cheek with his thumb, curl of her hair as he slides it away, tilting her chin up so she's meeting his gaze. "I won't get you into trouble, I swear." He’s got a fifty in his other hand, folds it gently into her palm. "Just tell me where she is and you can pretend you never saw me."

The demon's in the office upstairs and Sam subdues her quickly before she realizes who she's dealing with. He throws holy water in her face, and as she's screaming, bellowing obscenities, he presses his crucifix into her barely-covered chest. She hisses at him as she writhes on the floor in pain, head tipped back, her hands desperately flailing as she tries to claw at him.

"Dean says Hi," she grinds out. "He's very popular, Sam. Hundreds of us waiting to get our hands on him. And in him." She looks up at him, a sick smile smeared across her face despite the pain, eyes black as pitch. "We will, you know," she hisses, "he's got forever. Then there's you. Filthy little traitor. We can't wait for you to come and visit. Maybe we'll make you watch while we peel the skin from your brother's body."

"Shut up," Sam says. Closes his eyes and tries to get the image of Dean screaming out of his head. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus-"

"Come on, Sam. Not hurting anyone here, right? Don't make me go back there. Please."

Bargaining. Pleading. Her voice is strained, hoarse from screaming, the fear and pain threaded through every syllable, but there’s not a single inch of him that can feel sorry for her.

Because Dean. Dean is being ripped apart by all of them. Dean is being burned and flayed and ravished and if Sam can't stop it he's going to do the only thing he can. He's going to send the bitch back down there, screaming and kicking and fighting him all the way.

"You took my brother," he spits, "I don't owe you a goddamn thing. Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta..."

"See you down there, Sammy," she hisses and it's all over, black smoke spewing out of her mouth.

Sam doesn't wait to see if the woman, Catherine, he thinks her name is, is okay. He leaves her there on the floor, gasping for breath and trying to clamber to her knees.

The first thing he does when he leaves The Blue Door is make a call. If it were up to him, he'd have nothing to do with her, but as it stands he needs her help.

"Sam. How did you get this number? Not that I'm complaining of course, lovely to hear from you as always."

Smug fucking bitch. Sam can feel his jaw flexing under the strain of even hearing her perky, bright voice.

"Cut the shit, Bela." Sam's voice sounds like he feels, and it drives him nuts that she gets to him like this, every fucking time. "I need some dreamroot. Enough for a month. Can you get it for me, or not?"

"I'll see what I can do." She pauses. "Sam? I'm..."

He can hear the pity in her voice and it makes him think about his hand around her neck. Squeezing. After all, if the bitch hadn't double-crossed them, hadn't stolen the Colt, then he and Dean would've never been in Broward County in the first place. And if they hadn't made it there, well, a guy could go crazy thinking like that. But he’d rather cut out his own heart than hear her worthless apologies.

Sam inhales sharply through his nose.

"Don't say it, Bela. Just don't." He's aiming for a warning, but he can't keep the waver out of his voice, and he hates himself for that. It makes him feel weak and useless and desperate and the last thing he needs is Bela fucking Talbot knowing how truly pathetic and totally out of control he is these days.

"Fair enough," she says chirpily. "Give me 24 hours. Where shall I meet you?"

"Dallas. I'll call you when I get there."

He quickly disconnects, and it’s satisfying being the one to hang up. He imagines Bela, open-mouthed, shocked that anyone would dare. It makes him smile for the first time in weeks.

***

Bela always looks completely out of place in motel rooms. Itchy and uncomfortable and like she'd rather be anywhere else. But he really couldn't care less that she's sullying herself by being there, subjecting herself to the dust and grime, the potential injury to her French tips.

"It's good to see you, Sam." She sits down on the bed opposite his, looking tired. There are creases around her eyes and mouth, and in this light, it's obvious to Sam that she's older than she’d like anyone to believe. Either that, or being on her own, drowning in her own bitterness is aging her. Either way, she’s less beautiful, and Sam finds a certain irony in that.

Can’t help but wonder if that's what's going to happen to him, too.

Sam snorts. "We’re not here to catch up like old friends. This is business, Bela. That's all. If you're expecting a hug or something..." he trails off, and ignores the derisive smirk he gets in response.

"Come now, sweetie, no need to be nasty. I did what you asked, after all." She pushes a strand of hair back from her face and throws a Ziploc bag at him, filled with what looks like dreamroot.

"Where's the Colt?" Sam asks, voice strained, picking up the bag and inspecting the contents. No doubt about it. Dreamroot. He'd recognize the revolting smell anywhere.

"Now, now, love. You didn't ask me here to talk about the Colt." She inspects her nails, then looks up at Sam, grinning with blood-red lips and bone-white teeth. "You can have it for half a million, though."

Sam can feel his jaw flex. His fingernails dig into his palms, the bite of it about the only thing stopping him from reaching across the table and slapping the smug smile off her face. Sam's never wanted to hit a woman before, not a human one anyway. Bela though? He's met nicer demons.

"Oh don't look so grumpy, Sammy. That's a bargain."

And no. Just... fucking no.

"Bela?" He manages to get out through gritted teeth, "if you want to keep your head on your shoulders, that'll be the last time you ever call me that."

She bites her lip, and it's momentarily satisfying to know he's scored a hit, but the exhilaration's tainted with images; scenes he can play in his head like a goddamn movie. Sense memory's a bitch, and he doesn't think he'll ever be able to erase Dean's voice from his head, every time he hears someone else call him Sammy.

"I'm sorry. I really am." Her eyes are sad and Sam has to look away, because he thinks this is probably the most honest she's ever been, and he can't afford to start believing she’s human, has a heart.

Bela clears her throat and stands up, smoothing down her skirt. "Think what you want of me, Sam, but I did care about your brother. He was rather special. Do tell him that when you see him, won't you?"

She's out the door before it even clicks with him that she never asked him to pay for the dreamroot.

He thinks he hates her even more for that.

***

Sam's always cared about routine. Lately he's been slipping, but tonight's important. He wants to do it right.

He has dinner at a good steakhouse. It's more money than he can probably afford, but he doesn't care. He orders a couple of porterhouses; one rare and one medium. They come with mushroom sauce and baked potatoes with a side of crisp steamed broccoli, carrots and peas. The waiter doesn't ask who the other steak is for, and Sam turns down the takeaway box they offer him at the end of the meal.

He shells out for a bottle of good scotch on his way back to the motel room. He sits in the dark, has a couple of glasses, neat, before he strips down to his boxers, sits on the edge of his bed and downs the dreamroot.

He blinks, and when he opens his eyes he's aware of someone knocking on the door. Fists pounding hard and frantic, and by the time he gets to it, it stops.

Sam opens the door anyway, but of course when he opens it, he's somewhere else entirely. He's facing a long, thin hallway with doors on either side. In fact, it looks exactly like the hallway from Freeman High in Nebraska. The place he graduated from and never ever wanted to see again.

The bell rings, and the hallway crowds with kids. Sam gets a good look at them as they swarm past him, and, okay. Not kids. Demons.

Ruby comes jogging up to him. She's in a cheerleading skirt, which is barely covering her ass, sweater stretched tight across her chest. Broad space between the F and H. Her hair’s pulled back in a ponytail, black and silver pom-poms in her hands. Sam doesn't even want to think about why his psyche's dreamed up an image as disturbing as this.

"You coming, Sam? You're gonna be late for class!"

"I. Class?"

"Yeah, c'mon," she grabs his arm and drags him towards the first closed door, "you don't want to miss this one."

Ruby opens the door, and pushes him through it. The door shuts behind him and he hears a key in the lock. He tries to open it, but it won't budge. Awesome.

Sam turns around, slowly. The classroom's empty, except for one person. Dean. He's sitting at the teacher's desk, feet up, ankles crossed, eating an apple. It's crawling with maggots.

"Seriously, dude, the food here? Not so good. Can't even find a decent cheeseburger." He drops the apple to the ground and it disintegrates.

Sam can feel his chest seize up. Dean’s in front of him, Dean, and Sam doesn't care if it's a dream or not because it feels so goddamn real. He walks over and drops to his knees.

"Assuming the position already, Sam?" Dean smirks and swivels to face him, "I like it."

"Shut up," Sam says, with no real weight. He grins and adds, "It's really good to see you, jerk."

Dean looks good. He looks really, really good, and Sam can't help but reach out and palm his cheek once, watching as Dean's eyes close.

"Of course it is," Dean says after a few long seconds and hoists himself up onto the desk, legs swinging back and forth. Dean's always been a fidgeter and it usually drives Sam completely fucking nuts. But Sam doesn't care about anything so small and stupid now. Dean's here, and he can do whatever the hell he wants to because all Sam cares about is the fact that when he reaches out, he can feel Dean's skin under his fingertips; warm and alive and it feels so fucking good he can't even breathe.

"I heard you took yourself to dinner before," Dean says, thumbing Sam's bottom lip, "steak and whiskey, preparing yourself like a virgin on her wedding night."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Very funny."

"I thought so. Because seriously, Sammy?" Dean coaxes Sam up, one hand on the back of his neck, "You ain't no fuckin' virgin."

Dean kisses him then, one hand grabbing his hair and the other at his waist, and Sam just melts into him as Dean drops his hands to Sam's ass and grinds him against his own crotch. His mouth is so warm, and Sam's missed this so much that he can't help groaning like a little bitch. He couldn't care less if Dean teases him about it for an eternity, either.

"Miss you," Sam says when he pulls away. "Feels like a fucking hole in me."

"I know," Dean whispers against his neck, low and soothing. "I know, Sam."

Sam looks at him then, really looks at him and he can see Dean's arms are blemished with scars. They look like burns and they're everywhere-- his arms, his neck, his pretty, pretty face.

"Does it hurt?" Sam skates the tips of his fingers over them. He can't believe he didn't notice them before.

"Nah." Dean looks away. "Feels like fucking velvet on my skin. What's a bit of hellfire gonna do to me, huh?"

Sam can taste bile at the back of his throat. "I wish I could've saved you from this."

"Yeah, well you couldn't and you can't." Dean's voice is firm. "So stop feeling so damned guilty about it, will ya? Damn emo-princess."

Sam still feels his stomach twisting in knots, but he laughs anyway. He thinks he's missed this the most. The banter, the bitching and the unending feeling that whenever Dean says this kind of shit, that he's really saying 'sorry' or 'I love you’.

The bell rings, and Ruby's yelling at Sam, something about class being over.

He ignores the bell, and her. He kisses Dean again, and everything starts to flicker, like someone's flipping a lightswitch on and off. The room begins to fade, and so does Dean.

"No," Sam begs, "not yet. I haven't. I'm not ready... Dean?!"

"Same time, same place, Sasquatch," Dean says, and Sam wakes up. His fingers are twisted in the bedspread, like he’s trying to hold on.

Part Two