They were exhausted and cold and somewhat disoriented by the hunt that had lasted exactly thirty-two and a half hours from start to salt and burn finish. It was the earliest morning hour, the time between days, and the motel room felt more like home and less like impersonal train station and maybe it was that feeling, or listening to the water sluicing over Dean's body in the shower behind the closed bathroom door, or perhaps it was the strange long moment in the cemetery when he had glanced across the open grave, to see Dean lifting effortlessly his thousand thousandth shovel full of desecrated earth over his shoulder - with grace and strength and a wicked movement of upper and lower arm, the long muscles flexing down the length of his spine outlined beneath his t-shirt - and toss it up and onto the lip a foot above his head, that somehow set fire to what was left of the map inside his skull, burning it to ash.

He suddenly knew this was real, he had been dreading it, anticipating it, and wondering if he was still lost by it. Five years gone, following starlight. Now he had been left to try to find the way. A new starlit path. His way, their way.

With two quick exhales, he lowered his body to the motel double, feet on the floor, knees splayed comfortably, and replayed that small bit of Dean behind his closed eyes, seconds within a minute out of the hours and days and weeks and months of their two conjoined lifetimes. Something in the light or lack of, something in the set of Dean's face, his shoulders, the skin of his neck shaved clean, something in the shovel, the grave, the lonely cemetery, the blisters forming on his own hands and feeling sympathetic to what could only be the same on his brother's palms. Something more intangible. Something in the knowing, the understanding, the thicker than water truth, their DNA, and more, their lives stranded and coiled and defining the very essence of who they were. Something that wasn't him and wasn't Dean, but a place between them. A place like an open pathway, beckoning and Sam felt overcome. Suddenly overcome.

He toed off his boots, scrabbled backwards up the bed and rolled into the covers, dragging the material over himself, asleep before he even really could think of sleep.

***

Up on his splayed knees, thighs solidly under Dean's ass, gripping his brother tight and hard fingers around the hips, hauling him closer. Closer even. Even. Closer. The burn as his blistered hands tore and wept clear fluid, still he pulled Dean against him, he slid his hands down the length of his spread thighs, fingers pressing into the underside of his knees and he groaned. He reached forward again, between their bodies, grasping for both their cocks, encircling them with a firm and insistent gentleness and Dean moaned his name and he pulled his gaze up and looked at his brother's face, eyes half-lidded, head racking into the pillow. His heart surged crazily at the sight of his naked body, the sweated chest, shoulders. Dean's arms thrown wide, crucified for love, fisting the covers, holding on desperately. Overcome, the heated blood, his heart beating out Dean's name, he leaned down cupped the face he recognized more than his own in the glass, thumbs circling into the corners of Dean's beautiful lips, he bent into him and kissed him full and hard, back coiling, driving his hips against Dean, needing something more, pushing himself upwards with the strong muscles in his thighs, reaching down with one hand, holding Dean's face still with the other, he guided himself home and Dean's name tore out of his throat, through his lips. Dean!

***

Sam came awake instantly, the name of his brother caught between his teeth. He was shaking and with a spinning vertigo, realized it was the aftershocks of orgasm. His hips instinctively jacking into the mattress and Christ he still had his jeans on. He twisted his head on the pillow, eyes narrowed at the other bed and there was no movement there, he held his breath and listened to Dean's rhythmical, soft snoring. He sighed in gratitude for that at least, but his boxers and jeans were going to be an issue.

He rolled over onto his back, a forearm across his eyes. With deep, held breaths he brought his heart rate back to normal, his mind skirting tentatively around the images from his dream now seared into the forefront of his brain; Dean on his back, Dean naked, Dean's throbbing erection, Dean's mouth, and in the dream grabbing his own cock, guiding himself inside his brother's body. He moaned softly and shook his head. It had been years since he'd dreamed of Dean and apparently he had grown into a bonafide sexual creature during that dry dreaming time, because he had never dreamt anything remotely as graphic. And more disturbingly, he hadn't come in his sleep since the year he began to shave.

He lay awake, dawn still an hour or two below the horizon, before finally falling back into a dreamless sleep; smiling at the thought that he could ever top Dean.

***

He was shoving the last of his clean clothes back into the duffel, watching out of the corners of his eyes at Dean doing the same. 24 hour Laundromat and the sun up just one hour. The dream was still coursing through his body like a drug or the vestiges of a hangover. He was unsteady on his feet and concentration was elusive. Dean was interjecting into his thoughts every few minutes with observations, small statements, nothing really important and instead of hearing the words, he chose to listen to the cadence of his brother's voice, the inflection, trying to discern meaning without participating.

They were standing at the open trunk of the Impala, discussing breakfast options, Dean throwing him a strange look.

"You okay, Sammy?"

Sam had to close his eyes, turn his face away, at the sound of his name in Dean's mouth.

"Sam?"

He nodded, looking into the green eyes, blushing. "Yeah, fine. Actually, maybe just a little off. I might have caught that cold Bobby seemed to have last week."

"We'll get you some orange juice."

"Yeah, sounds good."

***

"A haunted library?" Dean rolled his eyes, took another bite of his Egg McMuffin and swallowed a gulp of black coffee, all at the same time. "Dude, you are making that up."

Sam shook his head, sipping at a 32 ounce plastic bottle of pulped orange juice, lip turned up the slightest bit at the smell of Dean's breakfast spread out on the front seat of the Impala. "Why would I make that up?"

"The question is why are you looking for jobs in libraries? Why not haunted tittie bars or ghostly micro-breweries? I mean, c'mon, library baddies and all the librarians to go along with it? You're practically wriggling, aren't you? Man you seriously need to get out more."

"The coordinates match an entry in Dad's journal. That's all." A single shoulder shrug and a bite out of his bran muffin.

"Hmph. And why are you eating that, Sammy? A muffin? Just saying the word muffin gives me gas."

Sam ignored the food jibing. "Dean, this is a job. Let's get on the road and check it out. And for all we know, the librarians could be the Swedish Bikini sister team."

Dean snorted, reached over and balled up his breakfast wax papers, stuffed them all into the bag and tossed it over his shoulder into the back seat. "Fat chance."

Sam smiled, looking down at his lap, small paper bag spread flat, bran muffin, balanced cup of coffee and definite thoughts of his brother.

***

On the road. Again. Impala burning up miles, heading towards a new job. It felt good to be moving, putting hours and an entire half a state between him and the dream. His skin still felt hot, his thoughts simmering. It wasn't as though he hadn't known before, he had just never looked the thing straight in the face, stared into the eyes of it, but it had been surfacing with insistence and regularity and it was cooking him from the inside out.

He settled himself shotgun, creaking his body down into the leather worn comfortable to the shape and size of him. He threw a long arm up along the back of the bench seat, looking pointedly out his own window, and teased himself with how close his fingertips were to Dean's nape. He closed his eyes and imagined he could feel the intensity of his brother's energy crackling across the mere inches, into his fingerbones, into his veins, jolting up his arm and settling into a syncopated rhythm inside his heart. Dean, Dean, Dean.

It had been ten months since Dean had materialized out of the shadows, dusting away the small handful of years they spent apart, climbing up and out of the longing and sadness Sam kept tamped down inside himself, appearing as though called in his kitchen. All the strength, the glorious masculinity of him, standing right there on the living room carpet, as if it had always been just that easy. All along. And the complicated origami of Sam's life unfolded, he felt it become something else, an older shape; the familiar folds and creases, the achingly irrefutable pattern of it. He had stood stunned at the immensity of his feelings. Even with Jess walking out of the bedroom door, he knew he was already gone.

***

"Oh, man, it's one of the Carnegie Libraries." Sam whistled appreciatively under his breath.

"Not many of those left, huh?" Dean was finishing off a breakfast burrito.

"No, and not ones that are still being used as libraries. They either get demolished or the town fathers build crappy new libraries and dump these abandoned buildings on community associations and non-profits who can't possibly deal with the upkeep and then they get demolished. It's pretty insidious."

Dean tilted his head at that, nodding. "Insidious, huh."

The Impala was parked across the street from the granite building.

They were in what Sam considered Small Town America in all her patriotic 1950's glory. No parking meters on the narrow street, but plenty of towering birch and elm trees standing stalwart guard, cracked sidewalks zigzagging quietly in front of lines of sagging post WWII houses. Two-story brick warehouses and a corner gasoline station with an actual pump jockey.

Dean looked up and then back down the small street. "This place is like the North Dakota Lake Woebegone."

Sam laughed. "Definitely, but hey, I got Internet at the coffee shop."

"True, but that was on the edge of town. This, this is what actually lies beneath the Starbucks, the Burger King and the Walmart. The dying heart of Dinkwater, USA." He pulled a face. "So, what's the story? Teens getting offed if they check out "The Joy of Sex"? Housewives meeting untimely ends with overdue copies of "The Story of O" in their purses?"

"Dean."

"Just asking."

"No, it's not like that. Apparently, librarians leap to their death from the roof. Third one jumped last week and she's currently on life support. And the first one jumped in 1909, the year the library opened."

"Fantastic." Dean suddenly sounded very tired.

"Yeah." Sam nodded agreement, a long sidelong glance at his brother.

"And the only business lead is Dad's journal? Maybe it's just a job risk."

"Maybe." Sam smiled despite himself. "I think there's something here. That first jumper? Three months to the day after a Sheriff's deputy chased a guy off the roof. To his death"

Dean leaned over and popped the latch on the glove box. With a lazy forearm on Sam's thigh, he rifled through IDs. Beside him, Sam held his breath then finally, moved his leg out from under the wicked weight of Dean's arm. "Uh, do you mind?"

"FBI?" Dean asked, grabbing for the badges.

"We're not suited up."

"It's still early. Everyone in this town is having a glass of freshly-squeezed OJ and the morning paper. Believe me. Let's find a motel and change."

***

Sam ran a lint brush down the long length of his thigh, then turned and tried to reach for the back of his trouser leg.

"Here." Dean grabbed for the brush.

"I got it." But his brother was quicker.

With a hand fast on the curve of his haunch, Dean hunkered down behind Sam and began running the brush up the outside of his thigh. "I knew that old broad's couch was bad news, Sammy. That's why you didn't see me sitting down. Hold still."

Sam could feel the heat of Dean's fingers through the trousers, closed his eyes briefly, moving imperceptibly into the span of Dean's palm. "Yeah, well. We need to drop both these suits off at a cleaner sooner than later."

The brush was rolled back up the inside of his thigh; Dean was huffing a small laugh, and then running it across Sam's ass. Sam bit the inside of his cheek and floundered his hand back, Dean avoided him.

Dean stood and twisted himself in front of Sam, one hand anchoring him in the middle of his chest, the other rolling the brush down the broad reach of Sam's shoulder. "You look good, bro. Fine as wine." Smiling through the joking compliment.

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Thanks. Um, you too. Here." He stepped into Dean's space and efficiently knotted a four-in-hand, tugging it tight, fingers lingering on the collar, brushing against Dean's throat.

"You know it." Dean said, a head tilt as thanks. He held the brush out, peering at it suspiciously. "Sammy, what the hell is this and where did it come from?"

"It's a lint brush. And I bought it."

Dean tossed it onto Sam's bed, muttering under his breath, clocking himself once more in the mirror. "Let's not keep the Swedes waiting, Sam." He laughed loud and long and Sam smiled behind him, following out the door.

***

Sam steps back, admires his handwork, the wide end of the tie ribboned through his long fingers, thumbs rubbing smoothly against the dark mahogany-coloured silk. Dean's tie perfect.

He smiles smugly, nodding. "See, I told you. It's a beautiful tie, dude." He gently pats it into place.

Dean clocks himself in the mirror mounted to the wall over the low dresser, a low whistle. "Sweet."

Sam turns towards the glass, watches Dean watch himself. "Absolutely. You needed a good tie, you needed the silk."

"Hey, Sammy, can you teach me how to do that?"

"I don't mind knotting it for you, Dean."

Dean blushes slightly, a dark auburn beneath his freckled skin. "Yeah, I know. But sometimes it makes me feel like a kid. It's something I should know how to do, huh."

Sam smiles softly. "Okay, big brother. Here." He steps behind him, hands coming up beneath Dean's arms, quickly and efficiently loosing the knot and springing the ends free. He leans into Dean's back, bends his head low, reaching for both tie ends, then looks up into the mirror, studiously avoiding Dean's eye, turning his head and breathing out against the column of Dean's throat. He feels Dean tense against him and he smiles. "Start with this, the wide end, on your right, and it needs to be about, oh a foot below the narrow end. See?" He tugs both ends straight, smoothes the wide end down, nearly to the belted waistband of Dean's trousers. "Can you eyeball twelve inches?"

"Hmph." Dean turns his head, trying to look at him. "Sure." He frowns muttering, "Weird fucken question."

Sam nods, still not letting his gaze be caught. "Good." He inhales deeply. "You smell mmmm. Is that Old Spice?"

"Sammy. I dunno, its deodorant." Dean turns his head into his left armpit, away from Sam's face and sniffs.

"Just sayin'. Okay, this is called a four-in-hand and here we go. Cross the wide end over the narrow, turn it back under, and bring it back over again." He moves the wide end methodically. "Now, here's the tricksy part."

"Did you just say 'tricksy'?"

Sam smirks. "So what if I did? Pay attention. You're holding the wide end, kind of loose, and the narrow end taut. Pull the wide end up and through this loop." With one hand he gently presses Dean's face upwards with the back of his knuckles fitted underneath his jaw, while feeding the tie end beneath the loop with his other hand.

"I can't see if my head's up like this, Sam."

"Shush now. This is the important part." He hooks his index finger loosely into the knot. "Slot the wide tail end all the way down through the knot, keeping your finger in there. Then tighten by sliding it up. To. Just. This. Spot." Sam fans his fingers wide, pulls the knot up, tugs the tie down and straight, letting go and using both hands to arrange and seat the knot at the top of Dean's collar. With a deliberate movement he brings both hands up to the sides of Dean's face, cupping him along his jaw line, manoeuvring his head back down, holding him still. Sam looks into the mirror, beneath his lashes, leaning his brother forward until Dean has to catch himself, hands on the edge of the dresser. Still holding his face, their gazes locked in the glass, Sam brings his mouth to a point just below Dean's ear. "Oh, Dean," he whispers and his voice is husky with ...

***

"You still with me, Sam?" Dean asked, throwing the Impala into park and keying off the engine.

"Yeah, sorry. Wool-gathering, I guess." He sat up, looking across to the library. A man was standing on the wide, granite steps, smoking, and one of the double glass doors was propped open. "We're here."

"Wool gathering? What the ... never mind. Yeah, Little Bo Peep, we're here."

Sam watched him climb out of the car, blushed to himself when Dean reached a quick hand up to his tie knot. He joined him, snapping his cuffs. "Let's do this."

The library air was stale and smelled of mildew. Hence the propped door, Sam thought. A large circular desk effectively blocked patrons at the front doors. Two blue-haired pensioners were standing and talking behind it.

Dean shot him a venomous look and Sam could only shrug helplessly. Dean mouthed, "Swedish bikini team my ass" and then they were being addressed.

Sam let Dean take over; he was better at the suited shtick and really could charm the pants off any female, regardless of age. Letting his gaze run quickly over the room they were in, beginning in the corner, he got his bearings, searching out shadows and generally getting a feel for the building.

"Oh, no, Agent Plant, no one was here the night that poor Jeanette...Well, you know. Her room-mate, Dana Jenson, is the children's librarian. You might want to talk with her, but I can't imagine why the FBI would be interested in such a sad, personal thing." Sam watched as both older women gave Dean a disapproving look. "Why don't you two young men go on through that doorway, she'll be back there. Can I bring you both a cup of coffee?"

"Not necessary. Thank you." Dean turned to him. "Sam, this way."

Dean shouldered up against him, hissing, "This place is like a freakin' convent, dude. Let's go talk to Sister Jenson. I pick the next job, got it?"

Sam shouldered Dean back.

Through the doorway, Sam running a quick hand over the faux Roman column framing the entrance and they found themselves in a warm corner of the building. Walls bright with poster board and a huge construction paper mural of an Elm tree dropping leaves, each one bearing a child's name. Short stacks of picture books corralled an oversized librarian's desk. In front of the desk, a woman was bending over, retrieving a forgotten book off the floor and Dean raised an appreciative eyebrow at Sam. Although the view was good, Sam still rolled his eyes. But she straightened and turned and he had to bite his cheek to keep from smiling. She was beautiful. And young. Tall and slim, long dark hair, huge brown eyes and a ready smile.

"Hello?" she asked.

"You're a librarian?" Dean spluttered.

She frowned, then her brow smoothed and she offered him a cheeky, flirty smile. "That's right. I'm a librarian. Can I help you find a book? Um....religious studies is over there, or I can point you in the direction of the few legal texts we have?"

Dean scowled at her and both he and Sam fished out their IDs, flashing her with the badges and snapping them shut as she leaned in closer.

"Oh." She became serious. "I didn't realize. I'm sorry, Agent..."

Dean waved an impatient hand. "No harm done. But I don't believe we look like either missionaries or lawyers." He shot an irritated glance at Sam who just shrugged, dimples showing. "Are you Dana Jenson?"

She nodded, turned to the desk and placed the book on it. Smoothing a hand down the front of her skirt. "I am. How can I help you?"

Sam spoke up. "We understand that Jeanette Smith is your room-mate."

Her face closed, her expression became deeply guarded and her eyes narrowed suspiciously. Sam also noted that the edges of her had become worn and pained. "Yes, she is."

Dean cleared his throat. "We'd like to talk with you about the night of the 17th. What happened. And what you believe happened."

"What I believe happened?" her voice cracked. "I don't know what you mean."

"Do you believe that your room-mate was attempting suicide?"

She looked at him for a long moment, then her gaze flicked over to Sam and he smiled sympathetically. He liked her.

"That's what I was told. Yes."

"Yes? You believe she jumped from the roof of this library?"

"Dean," Sam warned.

Dean ignored him, taking a step closer to the woman. "Why would she do that?"

Another long silence. "I don't know," she whispered. She covered her eyes with a quick hand, taking a deep breath.

"We're sorry," Sam said softly and she nodded.

"Yeah, me, too."

"We know she's in critical condition. Things must be difficult."

"She is. And things are very difficult right now." Her gaze had hardened and the suspicion was written back into her features and something more. Sam wondered if it was fear. "Why is the FBI interested in this? I don't understand that at all. Jeanette's a librarian. We're both pretty new here. We don't really know anyone in this town, not that there are a lot of people to know." She paused, looking down at her hands, twisting several silver rings on her fingers. "You know, she had big dreams, bigger than this place, this job. She said she was just going to get some experience, pad her CV." Sam nodded, Dean looked confused. "And then she was going to apply to a research library in Detroit."

Dean turned to Sam and spoke in a low voice. "She doesn't know about the history."

"What history," she interrupted. "What don't I know? Jeanette's history?"

Sam sighed. "It's Dana?" She nodded. "Dana, it's like this. Jeanette is the third woman to fall from the roof of this library. In total, four people have fallen from the roof and three have died as a result. A man, who was being pursued by a Sheriff's deputy, fell to his death the year the library opened. A few months after that, a woman fell and died and she was a librarian here. I know, it's really unbelievable. Then, about forty-five years ago, another woman fell," he nodded, "a librarian."

"It's a two-story building," she whispered.

Dean smiled. "You'd think."

"I didn't know about all of that." Her voice was quiet. "Why hasn't someone said anything, why wasn't that in the papers?"

"They might not remember. Forty-five years is a long time."

She grimaced. "Believe me, in this town, they remember details like that. They know if I go out for breakfast or dinner or miss a day of work." She mock-shivered. "But, still, something isn't adding up. I don't know what this would have to do, directly, with Jeanette." She held up a hand. "Yes, I can see there might be some kind of strange connection, but no one else seems to be tying that together. How could those earlier deaths have anything to do with something that happened last week?"

"It's a good question," Sam agreed.

"Are you sure it's not just a spooky coincidence?"

Suddenly she seemed too bold, too quick to divert and joke, her voice shaky around the edges of it. Sam schooled his face into a passive seriousness. "You know something, don't you, Dana? You know that this isn't a spooky coincidence."

She paled.

Dean whistled low under his breath. "Well played, Sammy." He turned to her. "You can tell us, Dana. No matter how crazy it sounds, you need to tell us what you know."