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This wasn't the end; that much was obvious.
However, when you added up all the factors, placed together in their neat little puzzle, no loose ends or distorted imagery, there wasn't a single other thing he could think to call it. There was that impossible heat spreading throughout his body, expanding into the room. The air hung hot and heavy, pressing hard against his chest, his lips, forcing his lungs down and in. Something in his mind told him his throat was closed tight and his ribs forced down on his lungs, squeezing the life relentlessly out of him. Sticky sweat rolled down from his face, sinking down along his neck to pool in his clavicle, burning with heat. Everything was burning, humidity forcing upon his body and heat strangling the breath from his throat. He wasn't sure he would be able to keep breathing if the heat didn't wane soon, and what was perhaps that same forceful, dizzying part of his mind told him it wasn't going to end. That bit of his mind told him he was going to overheat, suffocate, and die a slow death.
But then there was that one damned impossible sensation, pressing softly, subtly against him, trying with calm, cool patience to slowly draw that bit of his mind out into the same state as the rest of his mind.
That completely unnecessary breath brushing along his collarbone, and the soft rise and fall of a ribcage pressed against his side.
He was the cold; he was patience; he was the inhuman life that was so undeniably human.
Perhaps he was part of the reason this situation was so damned impossible.
Here Sam Winchester, hunter of all things supernatural, lay upon a murky, questionably safe cheap-ass motel bed, tucked away in a dim, lonely little motel in some town he honestly couldn't remember the name of at the time, with the Trickster curled around him like some kind of puppy.
His brother wasn't even twenty-four hours gone, and he'd just fucked the god-damned Trickster.
Because of all potential bed mates to show up almost immediately following Dean's death, it had to be this fucker. God must just love Sam.
He had shown up unexpectedly as always, the moment Sam departed his brother's body and checked into another crap motel, trying to reign in his shock and slowly emerging emotions. He'd called for Bobby as soon as he'd been able, of course, after crouching over Dean's body for what had felt like a lifetime, caressing his face and fixing his jackets. He sought comfort in all those little ministrations that didn't mean a damned thing, not to Bobby, certainly not to Dean, and not even to himself. He continued to watch over his brother's body until Bobby arrived and forced him away, telling him "It's not gonna help anyone if you just sit here weeping over him all day and night" and "go rent a room, get some sleep. We'll do the send off tomorrow, in the morning." Sam protested thoughtlessly, saying they couldn't burn Dean's body, they just couldn't, because maybe there would be a way… Bobby told him again they would deal with that the next morning and sent Sam off, saying he'd call and check on him in a while. Neither of them truly expected to sleep anytime soon.
Sam had done what his father-figure had instructed him to do, driving for a time he hadn't been able to process before tucking the Impala into a motel parking lot and getting a room. He'd opened the door, head hanging, eyes red and so irritated they'd grown numb with the thoughtless tear escaping now and again. He was a complete wreck, broken and shaken to the core, and he'd lifted his head to see the Trickster sitting on the edge of the bed, gazing at him curiously. Relying on nothing but reflex his hand had stretched behind his back to reach for his gun, but instead grasping only at air and the clothes covering him. He didn't know if he'd had it in the first place, or if the Trickster had snatched it away, but it certainly wasn't on him now. So Sam stumbled forwards, nerves weak and muscles loose with fatigue, and forced his hands around the creature's throat. A snarl ripped through his mind, but he wasn't certain that it hadn't only come out as a broken whimper in the air, and he forced the Trickster down, back against the bed. He wasn't met with physical resistance or even a cruel taunt, just that curious, wondering gaze trained on his face. Sam tightened his hands, base of his hand shoving the man's trachea down and closing off his airway. Still the man didn't struggle. Sam tried harder, pushing all his strength into his hands, onto the man's throat. Adrenaline rolled off him in waves, his body beginning to shake without his notice, and there was a slight release beneath his hands as he crushed the man's trachea. It should have been satisfying; performing what would have been a kill against the man who'd killed his brother, his now dead brother, a hundred times over for as many days straight.
But the Trickster didn't even flinch, didn't blink, only kept his eyes trained on Sam's.
And he collapsed, beaten and broken, half splayed over the Trickster's body and half on the floor. He wept into the man's side, hands still grasping the man's throat, hold now loose and pliable, with his face tucked into his side, somewhere between his navel and hip. He wasn't certain when the slighter man shifted his own body, or when those unrelenting eyes finally left his face, or even how long he laid with the man after he'd been pulled up onto the bed and had arms tucked around him. It was only when the first inklings of the heat began to press on him that he took in his surroundings, brain being stirred into a dulled state of activity. It was then that he'd discovered his leg's tangled into the others sideways, foot twisting along the other's calf, and his arms wrapped around the other's abdomen, dangling low at the waist. He took in the placement of his head leaning roughly into the other's chest, breath still too heavy and forcing against the other. He still wasn't sure how time was progressing, but he knew it felt like much, much too long between the time he came into this semi-conscious state and the time that he finally willed himself to tip his head up and look at the man holding him as though he was a broken child.
But perhaps that's exactly what he was, for when he raised his eyes to look into that other's face, the creature he saw there was old, wise, and all too unbelievably strong and patient. This was not what he knew of monsters, and certainly not of the demi-god Trickster that threw Sam around relentlessly, caring nothing of how he tore at and broke the man. No, this man, this creature, whatever was his true existence, this was a being with patience and calm reassurance, even if he didn't hold actual compassion or understanding. Sam couldn't explain this being any better then he could the actions that followed.
It might have been with reference back to the Trickster's promiscuous identity, or more with Sam's pure desire for warm, live human contact, but he was in no way certain why he responded the way he did, lifting himself to shove his mouth against the other's feverishly. It was a kiss; sloppy, wet, and rough on his raw, over-sensitive skin, and with a waiting time for a response that seemed to take much too long.
But Sam was given what he wanted. In a manner that could be classified as uncertain, the Trickster raised one of his arms from supporting Sam's back to press his hand against the back of the hunter's neck, pressing him closer as he began to move his lips against the other man's. This was when the heat truly began to coat itself around Sam, forcing on his skin and pressing on his tender eyes, and it was when he began to feel his throat tighten, his vessels contract. He couldn't be certain how many false sensations Sam's brain provided him as he pushed the Trickster down against the bed once again, unraveling their legs so he could crouch over the other properly. It might have provided the shaking in his strangely numb fingers as he reached to unbutton the other's shirt, the unusual tingling numbness that rushed up his hands as he pressed his fingers along the other's ribs. The actions were returned, but with that strange radiating calm patience that allowed the Trickster to proceed with slow, agonizing light movements. Sam could feel the fingertips brush down his chest, a stray finger feathering over his nipple, and there was an explosion of numbing, tingling heat throughout his body that was so unlike the feel of the Trickster's body against his. It mustn't have taken too long to advance to the stage where further garments were removed, because before Sam could quite realize it the Trickster was arching over him, unconsciously grinding their hips as Sam felt his body thrust upwards greedily. His mind was a blur, the heat still pressing tight on his throat and now other active sections of his body, and he wasn't sure whether he had requested the other man topped, but no matter the case he was sure as hell glad he did, because Sam needed this. He needed to be felt out in this pressing heat, needed the other to take charge so he could just lay back and enjoy it, not needing to think about whether he was shoving too hard or to adjust his angle or anything of the sort, but to just let his body and the Trickster's movements guide him. When he first felt the full penetration his foggy mind stumbled to the conclusion the other must have whipped up some lube, and maybe a condom as well, because it didn't hurt as much as he'd been expecting. Such thoughts were quickly swept from his mind, one of the Trickster's hands pressing hard into the space beside Sam's head, occasionally tugging on some of his hair, the other reaching low to grasp him and continue those indescribable, precise motions that were driving Sam up the wall. He tightened his legs against the other's back as he felt his muscles harden, hand tugging and rubbing against the other's skin as he tried to alert the man to his situation. It didn't seem to matter, though, because as Sam's eyes opened and he felt his body tense, he caught his lover's expression. The Trickster, if this being could really be referred to as such, had a face flushed so red it appeared to be glowing in the dim light, his mouth open in a tense, restrained gasp, and face in a composition that spoke nothing but pure, unfiltered, lustful euphoria to Sam. He felt his muscles shudder all throughout his body, forcing himself out into orgasm, and his blurred mind tried desperately to memorize his lover's face at that moment. The being, Trickster or otherwise, had cast his eyes down to reveal passion and hunger that swept Sam's mental capacity from him, lips quirked up in a smile that seemed to almost be sweet and doubtlessly sincere in its expression of pleasure. If Sam hadn't just come, that expression being directed at him sure as hell would have made him.
Sam could feel with dulled senses the electric release of his lover as the man tensed against him, revealing that he had indeed decided to use a condom, but in no way taking from the sense of euphoria that Sam was experiencing at the moment. It was unfortunate when the man had to withdraw from him, but contact wasn't lost for long as the being cleaned himself up just ever so slightly and wrapped himself against Sam. He could feel one arm draped over his chest, fingers brushing gently along his own bicep, the other raised so the hand could play with the sweat-soaked hair near his ear. They twisted their legs together thoughtlessly once again, though Sam took notice as the other decided to wrap one of his so that he could poke at Sam's lower thigh with his toes in a way that seemed strangely individual to the man. That strange sweltering heat still entangled Sam, contrasting with that coolness the Trickster was radiating, and it took a long while before Sam's mind was able to escape the mass of strange sensation enough to truly comprehend the situation.
So this was where Sam Winchester found himself, wrapped up in bed with the Trickster, having just engaged in undoubtedly wonderful sex, and with the remerging memory of his brother's corpse, practically still warm, slowly wasting away within not a ten minute drive. His brother, Dean, who all in all had been more like a parental figure then his true father had, had just died and went to Hell.
And it was all so he could get his little brother back. To save Sam.
And here Sam was, wrapped up in the limbs of some creature who he was supposed to kill, completely disregarding Dean and all he had sacrificed just so his brother could go on living and staying alive.
That pressing heat closed in on Sam, squeezing on his throat and collecting in the pit of his stomach as a hard, aching mass of emotion and shame.
This had to be the end.
After all, how was it at all right that he'd just given himself up so willingly, hungrily even, to a creature who had been willing to kill off his now late brother without a second thought. This just couldn't be right. How could he have let himself betray his brother like this? To give himself up to the enemy, to practically beg the Trickster to have some kind of pity sex with him, just to try and fill that miserable, aching hole where the memory of his brother was.
He hadn't realized it past the thoughts and guilt overtaking his mind, but Sam's muscles must have tensed and his breathing hitched or something, because before he really comprehended it, that cool, calm patience was withdrawing from him. The Trickster had lifted himself up and withdrawn his limbs from Sam, shifting over as though preparing to swing his legs over the side of the bed and stand up. Thoughtlessly, Sam's body followed the only sensation that had been giving him comfort and he felt his hand reach out to try and grab the Trickster's arm, preventing him from moving. Sam faltered; the Trickster's expression as he turned to look at him freezing him in his movement. The man seemed to be radiating a cold fury, so thick and strong it was almost palpable, and the look within his eyes breaking whatever train of thought Sam had been having. The stifling heat released him for just a moment, lungs drawing in a fresh, clean breath that came through as a broken vocalization. Before Sam could even attempt to round up the scattered remnants of his mental state, let alone form any kind of speech, the Trickster stopped him.
"Look here, Sam," he ground the name out in a way that allowed no true fury into his voice, but expressed every bit of it that he was feeling, "I didn't come here just to give you a gracious round of 'pity sex,'" the Trickster seemed to mock Sam as he used the term, "or to trick you into a so-called 'betrayal' of your dead brother." The man fixed him with that hard stare and Sam felt his arm drop as the heat began to enclose him once again. "Because he is dead, Sam, and if all goes well he isn't coming back. I came here only because I wanted to, and not for some ulterior motive or whatever the hell it is you suspect. So, how about you do us all a favor Sam, ditch that whiny, co-dependent attitude and learn the lesson I tried to drill into your thick skull months ago." Sam wasn't sure if the being in front of him actually paused at this point, or if his mind had just finally given up trying to keep up with the other's words. "Dean is dead, Sam, and there isn't a single thing you can do to change it."
The man seemed to be gone instantly, Sam's mind still stumbling all over itself and the things the Trickster had said and done, but in truth perhaps there was a moment just before the snap rang out in the air and the Trickster left, the soft ring of "Appreciate my last favor" ringing softly in the stale air.
Whatever the case had been, when Sam was dragged into unconsciousness after an immeasurable amount of time had passed and finally had to succumb to sleep, and before he would have to reawake in the morning and truly deal with the death of his brother, Sam slept better than he had for a long, long time, and would for an equally long time to come.
Perhaps it wasn't the end, but sometimes you just couldn't tell.