-Chapter Two-

'With one hand on the hexagram,
And one hand on the girl,
I balance on a wishing well,
That all men call the world.'

-Leonard Cohen

-Present Day-

"After that, there was just no stopping Sam and Dean Winchester. They tore up the countryside with a vengeance right out of the bible. In the course of three months they slaughtered one hundred and eighty six people – all innocents they had never met before; total strangers. Each one killed to fulfil the fantasies of these love-crazed, narcissistic psychopaths."

Bela Talbot considered herself on screen, nodding appraisingly at the old footage from the last show. Behind her, the editing crew were giving each other looks, but she ignored them.

"Yeah," she said after a minute, with her refined British accent. "Maybe trim that bit there and go in for a close up when I say, 'Love-crazed, narcissistic psychopaths.' Points for Drama. What do you think?"

Besides her, David sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, we really raped and pillaged the first show to do this…"

Roger, the cameraman, helpfully piped up. "We changed the order around so it wasn't super obvious."

"Yeah, thanks Roger. But in my opinion it still needs a new intro. You can't cannibalize yourself all the time, Bela, or-"

Bela let out a snort and looked David in the eye. "Repetition works, David. You think those morons out there in zombie-land actually remember anything? It's junk food for the brain; filler, fodder, whatever. Just build for the interview. Keep saying, 'Live Interview With Bela Talbot!' Anticipation, David, that's all it's about. The next bite of chocolate, the next car, the next vacation, the next life – next, everything is next. That's life, OK sweetie? You just keep them dangling."

David shook his head and went about cutting the tape, muttering under his breath.

"What's the next bit?" Bela asked, popping a chewing gum in her mouth and leaning over David's shoulder to watch herself on screen.

"Patrol man Gerald Nash was just one fifty two officers that Sam and Dean Winchester murdered during their reign of terror…"

"OK, that's another thing," David cut in, pausing the footage. "Why does everyone say their names in that order? Dean is the oldest, right? Sam's like eighteen, so why is it his name first?"

Bela shrugged. "Because that's the way everyone says it."

"Why are we following suit? I mean, it should be the eldest's name first, right?"

"I am this close to shoving my three inch heel up your arse right now, David. So maybe you could just can the bright ideas and do what I pay you to do. Make me look good, alright? I'm not going to look like an idiot because of your ridiculous semantics," she purred, eyes flashing.

"Whatever," David sighed, playing the footage with a scowl.

"Gerald and his partner Dale Wrigley were parked at a doughnut shop when it happened."

The screen showed an older man, Dale Wrigley, explaining what had happened.

"This '67 Chevrolet Impala pulled up about three spaces away from where I was parked. Gerald was only three weeks out of the academy. He came out when the driver asked him over. Looked like Gerald was giving him directions. Driver waved him thanks and then up come that shotgun."

The screen exploded into re-enacted violence and mayhem. Actors playing the roles of Sam and Dean Winchester were laughing and yelling, while driving recklessly away as they were pursued. Then it panned back to Bela, looking smart in a dress suit, low cut and revealing.

"And famous they became. Half the world is in horror at the massacre staining the once peaceful roads of Highway 666…the other half caught Sam and Dean fire; beloved and adoring fans."

The shot switched to a scene of chaos and madness outside the Winchesters' trial. Hundreds of teens, all dressed like the brothers, carrying signs and screaming to see them.

"What do you think of Sam and Dean?" Bela was asking three young boys.

"Hot."

"Hot."

"Totally hot."

"Sam and Dean are the best thing to happen to mass murder since Manson."

"But they're way cooler."

"I'm not sayin' I believe in mass murder or whatever…"

"Yeah, we respect human life and all."

"But if I was a mass murderer, I'd be Sam and Dean."

It then cut to two British kids standing in front of Big Ben. "You take all the great figures from the States," a young man was saying. "Elvis, James Dean, Jim Morrison, Jack Nicholson – add a pale of bloody nitro and you've got Sam and Dean. They're like rebels without a cause, except they've got a cause…only no-one knows what it is."

The next clip was of an impressive looking man. A goatee and stubble surrounded his sombre face as he sat, fingertips steepled together as Bela interviewed him from the confines of his office. Across the bottom, it flashed, 'Dr. Emil Rheingold.'

"Ah yes, Sam and Dean's devotion to each other. Well, after extensive study I believe I can be one of the first to give an official opinion, if not a diagnosis as to the nature of the relationship. You see, in a world where people can't seem to make the simplest of relationships work and the slightest emotional commitment is considered devastating, Sam and Dean have a do or die relationship of a Shakespearian magnitude. To the country's youth, 75 percent of whom are coming from broken homes, they have an us-against-the world posture which youth loves. And they've taken that posture 10 steps beyond. Sam and Dean have shocked a country numb with violence. They've created a world where only two exist and anybody who inadvertently enters that world is murdered..."

Bela made an irritated sound. "This bloke looks like he was cut with a fucking meat-cleaver and why does he have to speak so slowly? No-one wants this shit; axe it, Dave."

David looked like he was on the verge of walking out. "This is the only piece of factual information we have on the Winchesters that's not kids yelling how much they want to be murdered by them. We can't cut it and you know it, Bela."

"Fine, well just make sure to keep flashing back and forth on me while he speaks. See if you can't wrangle some kind of intermittent flashing sequence with some more of those re-enactments."

"Dr. Rheingold," screen-Bela was asking, leaning forward and flashing a good deal of cleavage as she did. "Can you confirm the rumours of an incestuous relationship?"

Rheingold looked vaguely nauseous for a moment before composing himself. "At this point I would prefer not to comment."

"But surely you would know, after your extensive psychological analysis of them both?"

"No comment."

"Very well, I'll move on to a more commercially acceptable question then. Are they insane?"

"Insane? No. Psychotic, yes. Sam and Dean know the difference between right and wrong, in my opinion, they just don't give a damn," Rheingold replied imperiously, seeming pleased to have the subject matter brought back to something of his liking.

"Many other psychoanalysts have posited that there might be a history of sexual abuse. What is your opinion on that, Dr. Rheingold?"

"Abuse? I would say….no, as far as I can tell. I don't think there is any reason to believe that either one was sexually abused as a child. There is a tendency to label most mass murders with that sort of 'Sympathy for the Devil' story but mostly, it's baseless imagination, spread by fans."

"So are you still working on the case with the Winchesters, Dr Rheingold? Especially after the brutal murder of the last person who attempted to evaluate Sam?"

Rheingold shifted somewhat in the chair. "Regretfully I have other more…pressing cases to attend to and am no longer working solely on the case. But I will be available for consultation of what I've discerned so far. For a small fee, of course."

"Cut that," Bela demanded. "Too many big words and that guy just plain makes my skin crawl. Look, keep the cop and doughnut shop. I love the teens at the trial. What else have we got?"

"The trial itself turned ugly and brutal when Dean Winchester managed to get loose and attack one of the remaining victims left alive, Grace Mulberry. Grace had been brave enough to testify against them. Insider accounts claim that Dean killed her with nothing more than a pencil; she was dead inside ten seconds. Sam was reported to have looked on with a smile, singing softly under his breath."

"Yes, that's good. Keep that, I like that. Alright, remember to keep saying 'Live Interview!' every thirty seconds and we'll have the network creaming for it," Bela said with a hungry smile. "This is it, boys - we're going to make television history."

-Three Months Ago-

One hand loosely on the steering wheel and the other playing with the soft curls at the base of Sammy's neck, Dean glanced around casually as they drove through the small town. Sam was humming to himself as he always did, some beautiful song Dean had never heard anywhere but from Sam's mouth. It had been a long drive, thirteen hours straight to get to this rundown little shithole but it was a good place to lie low for a while after they mess they'd made back in Cortez.

It made Dean smile just to think about it; the gun in Sam's hand, the hostage he was using as a shield, the hunger in his eyes as he clocked each of the cops, demanding that he throw the weapon down. They hadn't seen Dean behind them, hadn't been able to tear their eyes away from his little Sammy; all breathtaking, covered in the blood of others and just keening for more.

Twelve dead in less than a minute and Dean had been rock hard the entire time.

"Hey, Dean," Sam said, voice all soft and relaxed, like he'd just woken up.

"Hmm?"

"I haven't seen a cop for half an hour. Is there such a thing as a cop-less town?" he asked, a pretty little smile playing about his lips as Dean glanced over at him.

"That's be heaven, wouldn't it? Shangri-fuckin'-La," Dean said, just because it would make Sammy laugh. He wasn't disappointed when Sam started to snicker, twisting in the seat so his back was against the window, fully facing Dean.

"I don't know," he said softly, eyes in sharp contrast to those dulcet tone. "I like cops. Like the way they break and bleed."

"My boy does have the touch, doesn't he?" Dean said with a sidelong glance at his little brother. "I know you do baby. Nothin' I love watching more than those assholes thinking they can bring you in nice and quietly."

"Think they can touch me," Sam said quietly, with just a flicker of the dangerous smile he had whenever he had a gun in his hand or a knife. "Always think they can touch me."

Dean chuckled. "Always regret it pretty soon afterwards."

"Can we sleep outside again tonight?" Sam asked, changing subject abruptly, like he hoped he might catch Dean off-guard.

With a sigh, Dean rolled his eyes. "Not tonight, Sammy. We gotta be careful, lay low for a few days."

Sam's bottom lip jutted out in his trademark pout. "How does laying low equate to staying in some rundown piece of shit motel where people can ID us?"

"Get ourselves a hostage," said Dean with a shrug, mind instantly going to weight, height, size of any potential girl they might grab. He steadily ignored that low whine in the back of his mind, darkly excited at the prospect.

Sam looked away and Dean sensed something was wrong.

"What's the matter?"

"Well," Sam said, eyes still averted. "It's just…do you still think I'm sexy, Dean?"

"What?"

The pout was back, a shadow of genuine insecurity behind it this time. "We haven't had sex for nearly a day now, Dean."

"Christ, Sammy! You're gonna be the death of me, baby boy, y'know that?" Dean chuckled, hand trailing over Sam's thigh. "Gonna have to pull this car over and fuck you in the broad light of day if you can't control yourself."

Sam shivered, biting his bottom lip. "Yeah?"

"Damn straight," Dean said, fixing Sam with a look and fuck if he cared about who he run over while he wasn't watching the road. "Take you outside, bend you over the hood of the car and fuck you till your eyes roll back."

That thought seemed to cheer Sam up immensely and he reached to turn the stereo on, humming softly along to Dean's Metallica songs he knew by heart. He lay his head on Dean's shoulder, fingers tracing over his chest, more directly over his heart; their latest matching tattoo. A star in the centre of a burning fire. Sammy's idea and design. He'd been drawing it for days before Dean finally suggested they both get it tattooed on them. Sam had then spent the night running his tongue across the sore, raw and bloodied flesh on Dean's chest, soothing it.

They stopped at half decent motel for the night, using cash instead of the fake credit cards. Sam wasn't quite as sullen as he had been before, but he was still a little put out about having to be inside all night. Dean knew that Sam loved to be outdoors; he was a wild thing and wild things didn't like to be caged and trapped within walls.

Dean sat on the side of the king size bed, cleaning his gun methodically, the way he'd known how to do since he was six years old. Guns and weapons had been Dean's pre-school. John always behind him watching for any mistakes, always ready to correct that mistake at a moment's notice. Dean remembered numb fingers and aching joints from so many hours of staying in the same position, doing the same thing over and over again. Remembered almost passing out a few times with fatigue and remembered very well being smacked around the head those very few times it happened. Sammy had only been a baby during those early years, a fat little toddler at the time. Dean had had to find a way of soothing Sammy while not actually moving from his duties. Usually, he wouldn't be allowed to move a muscle until he'd finished disassembling and reassembling various weapons. So he would he would sing to Sammy. He sang to him to stop him from growing agitated, which Sammy was prone to being. Sometimes Dean would make up words to go with whatever tune came into his head, usually it was just melodic humming. Little baby Sammy would gurgle and smile, happy to lay there and listen to Dean's made up lullabies. It was how Sam came to know and seek out his voice above all others. Sam knew Dean's voice above his own father and that lead to his unswerving loyalty to Dean as well. Both John and Dean had learned early on that if Sam had to do something or be told something, it had to come from Dean. Otherwise Sam just wouldn't listen.

Dean smiled to himself, remembering how angry that had made John. He hadn't liked it one little bit, but there was nothing he could do about it. Sam belonged to Dean – always had, always would and even John was never stupid enough to try to prevent the inevitable bond between them. But he certainly used it to his fullest advantage; knew that Sam was Dean's weak spot, knew Dean would do anything to keep Sam safe.

Sometimes, it made things a little complicated. Even in the now. The love and utter devotion Dean had for Sam was unflinching, but Dean knew deep down there was something else inside of him. There had been for many years now; it wasn't beautiful like what he felt for Sam. It was ugly and greedy, hot and furious around the edges. It was the reason he sometimes picked up random girls, the reason why the Impala's leather seats were always so pristine and pine smelling. Sometimes there was this need to hurt; to take control in a way that could never be applicable to Sammy. Not his beautiful, perfect Sammy. A little blood-play and bondage were vanilla to them both; Sam would beg to be tied up, to be blindfolded and teased. Loved Dean to cut the tip of his tongue and then kiss him senseless. They were creatures of darkness and had always been so.

But that place inside of him, it was too dark for Sam. A great void that sometimes howled to be filled and for the last few years Dean found himself helpless to obey it. Helpless to go out into the night, wearing his father's old leather jacket, and pick up some girl and indulge in what that darkness screamed for. More blood than a body could stand to lose, more control than anyone would willingly give. Always had to be a girl, so he never ran the risk of being reminded of Sam. He hadn't done it since he and Sam had left together after killing their father. It had been a long time since the darkness had reared and started making demands.

"You sure we can't go out tonight?" Sam asked through the half open door of the bathroom, bringing Dean back to reality with a little shake of his head. "Saw some bars on the way over, could be fun."

"No, Sammy," Dean said, clearing his throat. "Gotta stay in tonight. Just tonight, I promise."

Sam came out of the bathroom, towel swathed about his hips, body wet and hot from the shower. Dean found himself staring at the rivulets of water trailing down his otherwise naked form; Sam's hair was swept back, dripping down his back.

"'Sides," Dean said, kicking off his boots. "We got plenty of action here."

Sam threw a glance into the darkest corner of the room and then away again, letting the towel drop to the floor as he pulled on a pair of boxers. Christ, but he was beautiful.

"I guess," he said somewhat subdued. Dean frowned.

"Sammy, what's up? You've been moody all day."

"Nothing, I'm just a little tired is all," he said, but Dean didn't believe him; knew him too well. Sam was never tired, hardly slept, same as Dean.

They'd been trained from a very young age to avoid the traps of falling into a regular sleeping pattern. John would alternate their sleeping habits; keep them up until seven or eight in the morning and then let them sleep until two in the afternoon. Dean recalled how strange that had felt; the sun on his eyelids, turning the world reddish-orange. He would be waking up just as most people came home from work. It had taken only a few months to get used to that and then John changed it again. This time he'd train them through the night, the morning and up until midday; let them sleep until six at night. Once their bodies would adjust, he'd change it again. For a whole year it was John Winchester's personal vendetta to alternate their sleeping patterns until they both became completely used to staying awake as long as was necessary. They felt tired only when their bodies required actual sleep from exhaustion. There was no internal body clock demanding rest at a certain time of night. It was ingrained upon them now, they would sleep only when they needed it. One of many scars that bore the mark of John Winchester.

"C'mere, baby," he said softly, holding out his hand. Sam hesitated for a moment before taking it and Dean pulled him onto his lap, straddling him. "Look at me, Sammy," he instructed and waited patiently for his little brother's eyes to lock onto his. "What is it, huh? You bored? Itchy trigger fingers, is that it?"

Sam cracked an unwilling smile. "A little."

"OK, well how's about tomorrow we can go find ourselves another nice little diner, have a little fun, huh? How's that sound, baby boy?" Dean asked, running splayed fingers over the bare, damp skin of Sam's thighs.

"Sounds good," Sam replied, husky and close. He reaching down with his scarred hand and found it's counterpart, gripping him tightly. "Dean," he moaned, grinding himself down hard over Dean's cock, sending shockwaves of heat and pleasure over the flushed skin. One handed, Dean got his belt undone and his zipper down all the way before Sam pushed him backwards onto the bed, trapping him beneath his superior height and size; damned kid was gargantuan. He laughed, low and dirty in Dean's ear as he held his hands pinned together above Dean's head. He reached down with his one free hand to liberate Dean's cock from it's confines.

"Fuck, Sammy," Dean growled, animalistic and raw. He wanted, needed Sammy wrapped tightly around him, needed to be inside, needed it so bad. Sam's hand was teasing him, slow and torturous while he bit and pulled at the soft flesh of Dean's earlobe. The bite turned hard and unyielding; Dean cried out, wanting more of it. He thought he might come before he even had the chance to do all the things he wanted to do to Sammy, but then Sam froze above him, hand stilling on his painfully hard cock.

Breathless to the point he was almost dizzy, Dean managed to formulate words. "Wha…? Sammy, what? Why'd you stop?"

Sam turned away, into that dark corner where a young girl was crouching, tied in clever, tight knots. She was crying; Dean could see as he sat up on his elbows. It was audible even though the gag. Her nasal sobs set that dark place alight with terrible yearnings; things he had to get out of him. Things he couldn't let Sammy see, let alone ever do to Sammy. Things that had to be done to someone else, because doing them made him forget that once they'd been done to him.

"She's distracting me," Sam said very quietly, in that dangerous voice. "I don't want her here, Dean. Don't like it."

With a frustrated sigh, Dean let his head fall backwards, mind spinning. "The fuck, Sammy? It's just the fuckin' hostage."

"She's making noises," Sam said, moving off Dean a little more. "Can't we just kill her already?"

"That kind of derails the whole hostage plan, Sam," Dean pointed out, closing his eyes.

"You never wanted a hostage before," Sam was quick to respond. His genius level IQ brother would see straight through his flimsy excuses, of course. "Why now, Dean? You getting bored of this, us, me? You want to throw her in the mix, is that it?"

"Ahh, Christ! No, Sam, you're full of shit!" Dean snapped, the heat and need still pounding through his body, angry at being denied release. He was hurting Sam; he could see it, but that low whine was turning into a scream in the back of his head. The motel room was starting to remind him of the one they'd been staying in when Dean had been ten years old.

"Then why is she here?" Sam demanded and Dean sat upright, ignoring the way his hands were shaking. "Tell me why she's here, half naked in the corner?"

"What does it matter if she is? She's a fucking whore, some bitch off a street corner – big deal!"

Sam's eyes narrowed and he took a few steps back, shaking his head. "Oh please, Dean, like I don't know about your little night-time trysts! I've always known!"

Dean's blood ran cold. "What?"

"Yeah, Dean," Sam said, yanking on a t-shirt and raking around for his jeans. "I know what you go out into the night to do girls like this and y'know what? I never cared, never felt jealous; not really. 'Cause you had your reasons. Trying to protect me from your inner bad-ass or whatever," he was saying, still furiously tossing things behind him in the search for clothes. "It was always fine, you coming home smelling of blood and perfume. I never blamed you, Dean! Christ, who would?"

Dean's lip curled back of it's own volition. "So, what? You feel sorry for me, is that it?"

"No. I know you don't want pity. Would never insult you by offering it. Like I said, you deal with it in your own way."

Back teeth grinding together, Dean asked, "Then what the fuck is the problem?"

Sam spun around, launching a boot at Dean as he did. Dean ducked and narrowly avoided it hitting him in the face. "WHAT'S THE PROBLEM?" Sam screamed. "I'LL TELL YOU WHAT THE FUCKING PROBLEM IS, YOU ASSHOLE! THIS IS THE FUCKING PROBLEM!"

He shoved his hand right up close to Dean's face, displaying the scar. "You swore to me, Dean," he said in an unstable voice. "Made a commitment to me and I believed it. Told me we had to grow up, leave all that bullshit behind and look at what you're still dragging in with you!"

"She's a fucking hostage!" Dean yelled, hurling the boot at the girl in the corner; she whimpered pathetically, even though it hadn't quite hit her. "That's all!"

Sam pulled his jeans on, not bothering to zip or belt them and grabbed a pair of boots and the car keys off the night stand. "If you believe that, you're even more far gone than I thought!" he hissed. Dean went to stand up, but Sam pulled out the gun and aimed it straight at him. "Don't you come near me!"

"Relax, Sam! Calm down, OK? It's me, your lover – not some demon, not fuckin' John!"

"My lover?" Sam echoed, the gun trembling violently. "My lover who brings random fucking whores into the place where we're together? Is that you loving me, Dean? The way John loved us?"

"Fuck you!" Dean spat as his brother let the gun drop in his hand, turned his back on him, heading for the door.

Sam paused, glancing back once with a sneer. "Or how about you go fuck her?" He slammed the door so hard the lock broke, leaving Dean alone in the room with the girl. He was more furious than he'd been a long time with a sickness in his stomach that demanded release. He turned his attentions to the wreckage of a girl who slammed her eyes closed, shaking her head as though she could make herself believe it wasn't happening.

"Maybe I just will."

Sam was driving the car in a way he knew Dean would not appreciate, but he didn't care. He swerved and sped through the dusty little town, gun on the seat beside him where he usually sat. He ran his hands over his neck, over his face trying to chase away the sick feeling creeping over him for screaming those things at Dean, for not being strong enough to get over himself.

But then there was also resentment; jealousy, burning him alive, turning his blood to gasoline and setting light to it. The little bitch in the corner, whimpering all soft and sweet; he couldn't stop thinking about Dean touching her, even if it was only to hurt her. Couldn't bear to imagine Dean's body going anywhere near hers, even if it was only to commit those violations that Dean felt were necessary to air out his own demons. The jealousy had never been an issue before because it had only ever been Dean coming home, blood splattered and more in love with Sam than ever. They had been faceless, nameless pieces of meat but this was different. This was Dean bringing some slut into their world, into the same space as Sam.

He grit his teeth and threw his head back hard, not at all relieved by the pain of knocking his skull on the stiff, unyielding headrests. He hit the steering wheel a couple of times before he noticed the car needed gas. With a miserable sigh, he turned into a gas station and shoved the gun under the seat, raking around in the glove compartment for some money. There were bundles of cash stuffed inside it; rolls of hundred dollar bills, some clean, some marked brown with long dried blood. He took a few clean ones.

The light from the overhead lamps was noxiously green; it hurt Sam's eyes and he hated it. Missed the darkness that would allow him to see their stars. A young attendant, walked over, wiping his hands on a grease rag.

"Fill 'er up," Sam said, leaning against the car casually. The boy nodded and went about it while Sam watched him. He was dressed in dirty blue overalls, the top half was hung around his waist, only a dirty white t-shirt covering his chest. He looked nothing like Dean. Maybe that would make it OK.

"Nice car, man," the kid commented, looking up at Sam and then back down when he realised he was being stared at. "Yours?"

Sam laughed, slow and sultry. "Why would I be driving it if it wasn't mine?"

The kid shrugged. "Dunno. Guess there's a lot of criminals around these days and you look a little young to be driving somethin' like this. It's probably older than you an' me combined," he said, stealing another swift glance up and down at Sam.

It was almost too easy.

"Well," Sam leaned in a little and the kid's eyes widened just a fraction. "I'm not a criminal. What's your name?"

"Kevin," the boy said, just as they pump chimed to let him know the car was full. "You?"

Sam didn't hesitate. "I'm Dean."

"Hey there, Dean," Kevin said, scrubbing his hand on the thigh of his overalls before offering it to Sam to shake. Sam took it and squeezed hard. It felt strange; someone else's flesh, soft and unscarred.

"Nice to meet you, Kevin," he said. "What do I owe you?"

"Uh, that'll be sixty eight bucks fifty three," he said with a glance at the pump. "Hey," he said after a moment. "Don't I know you?"

Sam shrugged elegantly, leaning further back into the car. "Don't think so," he replied softly, trailing an obvious look up and down at the kid who caught it and blushed. "Do you want to touch me, Kevin?" he asked and watched as the young boy swallowed a large lump in his throat; Adam's Apple bobbing comically.

"I-I don't know. Uh, what…?" the kid stammered.

"I said," Sam repeated, watching the boy with an unblinking stare. "Do you wanna touch me?"

Kevin nodded, shakily and moved a little closer. "Yes," he breathed.

Sam didn't make a move, just waited. When Kevin finally got up the courage to touch him, it was on the bicep. The kid gasped and Sam just watched him with an almost cold, calculating stare that would have simply seemed intense to anyone but Dean.

And then he kissed him. Sam opened his mouth to the intrusion, reciprocated even and when he closed his eyes, he tried to think of anything but his brother. The boy was a sloppy kisser, clearly nervous but Sam didn't care. He pushed himself onto the hood of the Impala and crooked a finger beckoning Kevin closer, who pushed himself in between Sam's thighs. He resumed his graceless ministrations, hands running haphazardly over Sam's body.

After a minute, Sam realised it wasn't working. Dean was cemented in Sam's head and for the brief moments that he wasn't, all Kevin's attempts did was remind him of John; of unwanted hands roaming his body.

"You're so hot," the kid whispered. "So fucking hot!"

"Say my name," Sam said roughly. "Say it."

"Dean," Kevin moaned. "Dean."

Sam let his eyes flutter shut for a moment. "Tell me you want me."

"I want you, Dean."

"Go down," he instructed, pushing the boy off him. He felt his jeans tugged down to his mid thighs; the boys mouth around his cock, hot and wet, teeth scraping awkwardly. Sam lay there, trying not to think of Dean and how it felt to have his brother's throat relax around him, take him deep and swallow.

Kevin moved off him, climbing back up to kiss him and that's when he froze.

"Holy shit!" the boy yelped. "You're Sam Winchester, ain't ya? I saw you on the TV!"

Sam opened his eyes in time to see the boy stumble backwards, mouth agape. He moved off the hood, to the inside of the car and grabbed the gun. When he aimed it at Kevin, the stupid boy stuttered pleas for mercy. Sam fired without hesitation; steady hands of an executioner.

"That's the worst fucking head I ever got in my life," he told the dead boy when the gun ran out of bullets. "Next time don't be so fucking eager!"

He drove off into the night, considerably less reckless than before. The fury he'd been consumed by seemed to have abated. He missed Dean; felt dirty for letting that moron touch him, suck him – even if it was of no pleasure to Sam whatsoever. He felt like a hypocrite and when he looked down at the scar on his palm, that feeling intensified.

More than anything, he wanted to go back to Dean and show him that he didn't need to do what he was doing. That Sam was willing, desperate to give Dean whatever he wanted, needed. Didn't he realise they were the same? Same shade of dark, same type of demon at heart?

It took him an hour to return to the motel after he got purposefully lost for a while. When he returned, after giving the hood of the car a quick wipe down, he composed himself. He hoped that when he got inside, the walls would be red with the blood of that fucking girl; Dean would be drained of the poison and they could just be Sam and Dean again. No-one else.

He knocked on the door and strained to hear. No scuffles, no muffled screams. Just footsteps and then…

"Sam," Dean said, looking worn through. He rubbed his eyes and opened the door wide. "Get your ass in here."

Sam stepped inside, suddenly unsure of himself in his brother's presence. The room was the same as when he'd left, except the girl was no longer quaking in the corner. No blood, no mess; the bed was still made, for fuck's sake.

"You got any idea how fucking worried I was?" Dean grouched, shutting the door and walking past Sam towards the bed.

"Where is she?" Sam asked without preamble.

"I was going out of my mind, Sam," Dean went on as though Sam hadn't said anything. "Hate not having you close by, you know that."

"I'm a big boy, Dean," Sam snapped, flinging the keys down on the bed. "Not some little kid you've got to protect from the big bad world. Or yourself."

Dean looked at him then as if weighing something. "I know," he said finally. "I know that."

"Do you?" Sam asked, suddenly tired. "I know I'm a lot younger than you, Dean, but I don't want this to carry on this way. As far as I'm concerned, we're equals in this. We were raised the same, trained the same and you know I can more than hold my own. What have we been doing for the last few months if not proving that to the world?"

"It's my failing, Sammy," Dean said quietly. "I know everything you're saying, everything you're gonna say and you're right. It's just…instinct."

"It's the same for me," Sam said, moving closer to where his brother sat on the bed, looking vaguely defeated. "Did you know that? I want to protect you too, Dean."

Dean blinked. "You do?"

"Yeah, you moron," Sam sighed, plonking himself down next to his brother, nudging his shoulder. "I do. This is a two way street, has to be. You can't expect me to sit on the sidelines while you do what you think you've gotta do anymore. I want all of you. Even the parts you think are poison. The parts that are broken, tainted…I need it, Dean. Need all of you. You gave yourself to me, Dean and I expect the whole package. Got it?"

"You might not like it, Sammy."

"Don't care. It's mine. You're mine and anything you're hiding away is mine too."

Dean looked at him then and Sam struggled against the urge to touch him. "Alright. Everything. You can have everything, I swear." He leaned and pressed a gentle, open mouthed kiss to Sam's lips. "All yours anyway, always has been."

Sam grinned and slid a hand up and into Dean's hair, shifting around to get a better angle. "Good. If we could have done this sooner, I wouldn't have had to go out and get blown by a gas station attendant."

Dean pulled back; eyes wide and mouth agape. "You did what?"

Sam gave a small, unrepentant grin. "Jealous, big brother?" he asked innocently.

A low growl erupted somewhere from the base of Dean's throat. "Looks like I'm gonna have to teach you a lesson, Sammy," he said, somewhat breathlessly.

"Oh yeah? Where's the girl, by the way?"

Never taking his eyes off Sam, Dean replied, "Shot her in the bathtub. Wasn't really in the mood after you left."

Something about that made Sam feel inordinately pleased. He swivelled around to kneel on the bed, reaching for Dean's hand; it met his halfway, clasping tightly. "That's good. So, you gonna reclaim your property, is that it?" he teased, rubbing his nose over Dean's.

"No," Dean replied, husky and dry. "Want you to take me. Make me yours."

The thought had rarely occurred to Sam and certainly not as an actual possibility. Dean always topped. It made him so hot he thought he might burst a blood vessel; breath caught in chest at the thought of fucking Dean, of being inside him.

"Jesus," he gasped. "Are you serious?"

"Always. 'M yours, Sammy. Same as you're mine. Two way street, right?" Dean said, free hand caressing the side of Sam's face. His thumb slipped inside his mouth, roving possessively.

Sam replied by crushing his mouth to Dean's, sucking on his tongue and plunging his own inside in search of that velvet heat. Dean groaned a little, pulling Sam onto his lap and rocking up against him. "Fuck me, Sammy," he whispered, raggedly. "Need you to fuck me, baby."

"'Kay, Dean. Jesus fucking Christ," Sam panted, already so turned on he was having trouble organising his thoughts. Dean was working on getting them naked while Sam was still too busy imaging what it would be like to fuck his big brother. When he returned to reality, he was almost completely naked once again. Dean yanked him into another kiss. Sam reciprocated, dizzy and needy. He had to get a hold of himself; he was so light-headed with lust. It came as no surprise that Dean was already naked and rock hard against him from beneath. Sam's scarred hand took Dean's cock in a rough grip that made Dean mewl. He bucked up into it, one hand tangled in Sam's hair.

Sam couldn't help himself, he shuffled back enough that he could drop down and take Dean into his mouth. Hot and pulsing, Dean's cock was delicious. Sam flattened his tongue and ran it over the large vein on the underside, causing Dean's whole body to jerk involuntarily. He licked hard and then soft, tonguing the slit until Dean begged to fuck his throat. With a smile, stretched around his brother's dick, Sam relaxed his throat muscles and took him deeper. Dean cried out, hand tightening painfully in Sam's long hair. Sam breathed expertly through his nose and removed his hands from Dean's hips, where he'd been holding him down. Dean started to buck and thrust wildly; Sam stayed still, letting him - loving the feel of it. He reached down to palm his own cock, already leaking and hard just from blowing his brother.

Dean was making desperate, broken sounds; pieces of what might have been words. He was going to come, Sam felt it building in his balls as he rolled them around in one hand. Sam swallowed hard and Dean came down his throat, a strangled scream escaping his lips as he did. Sam wanted it all, not a drop wasted and he continued to milk his brother even as the aftershocks of the orgasm rolled through his twitching body.

When he pulled off, he trailed wet kisses over Dean's beautiful, toned body. He was unsurprised to see Dean staring as he moved in to kiss him, making him taste himself. They kissed for a few minutes until Sam began to fumble blindly on the night-stand for the lube. He broke the kiss enough to see into Dean's eyes, wanting to check – even though he knew - it was still what he wanted. He felt stupid; Dean was the older brother, had been sexually active in this way for much longer than Sam, but still. Sam would be the first person to do this to Dean since…

"Sammy," Dean sighed, leaning up kiss him. "No-one in the world but you."

Sam took that as final confirmation. He went about liberally applying the lube to his fingers, making a mess as he did. Then he reached down, clamped his lips over Dean's again, and slid the first finger inside. Dean moaned and arched up a little into Sam's body above him. Sam moved the finger in and out, almost coming there and then from the feeling of how perfectly tight Dean was. He added another finger almost immediately and Dean began rocking his hips. Sam was about to add a third, when Dean's hands went to his ass and pressed him downwards, demanding what he wanted non-verbally.

"Need you inside me, baby brother," he whispered in Sam's ear, licking the outer shell.

Trembling with desire, Sam guided his dick to where it needed to be and squeezed some more lube over the crack of Dean's ass for good measure. He nudged it against the hot flesh and suddenly all his insecurities vanished.

Using his hand, he circled the entrance with the tip of his cock, making Dean whine for more, beg for him to fuck him already. Then he pushed inside, just the tip and holy fucking hell that was amazing. The tremendous heat and tightness. He fought to control himself and not fuck his way inside like he wanted to. He searched Dean's face for any trace of discomfort and found none. Only Dean, staring at him with wordless wonder and so much fucking love that it made him want to scream.

He pushed in more, the sensation taking his breath away. Then he couldn't stop himself from sliding all the way home. Jesus fucking Christ he had to control himself or he was just going to come like this, without even having moved. He leaned down to kiss Dean, holding himself up on his elbows.

"Fuck, Dean," he breathed into him. Then he pulled back and slammed in deep, making stars dance before his eyes. Dean let out a beautifully wild sound, clutching at Sam's neck hard. Sam did it again, and again until his hips found a rhythm and he was struggling to breathe at all. It wasn't long before the familiar build up began to generate in his lower stomach, only far more intense than he could ever remember. Even more so than his first ever orgasm, which had come from just having Dean grind up against him. "Gonna…gonna come, Dean," he babbled.

Dean just kissed him harder and wrapped his legs tight around his waist. It Sam a better angle and he sped up, slave to the rhythm. Every thrust punctuated with a desperate, "Uhn, uhn, uhn!" until the building orgasm exploded over him, shattering him completely. He came so hard inside Dean, he wasn't sure there would be anything left. His arms gave out and he fell on top of Dean who made a little, "Oof!" at the impact.

When he regained the ability to think, Sam pulled out and shifted so his head lay against Dean's sweaty chest; heavily rising and falling.

"Mine," he managed with what little oxygen remained. Dean held him close, kissing his hair.

"Yours," he promised. "Sleep now, baby boy. Got a busy day tomorrow."

Before Sam could protest, his eyelids were crashing down and darkness was swallowing him whole.

Here was the thing about Agent Victor Hendriksen - one of many things that would ultimately contribute to a well rounded portrayal of his character, but undoubtedly one of the most telling. For although Hendriksen spent a lot of time bitching about the case he had been handed the truth was that he had begged, pleaded and even traded in favours to get his hands on it. Ever since the first public murder, since the very first accounts of the brothers in action, Hendriksen had set out to land it. The Winchesters.

Not for the prestige, not for the ample fame; not even for the feeling of doing right by the world in attempting to thwart two of the most notorious mass murders of all time.

It was because of Sam Winchester.

Hendriksen would never admit it – not even really to himself – but it had always been the youngest Winchester who had caught his attention on the security footage. It was Sam's file that he knew back to front. It was Sam he was a little bit obsessed with and not in a very healthy way. Sam Winchester was the reason he so badly wanted the case and now that he had it, he was careful to bitch and moan like any other decent cop would. But deep down, he was pleased. Very deep down, he was always just a little eager and excited to get to the next crime scene.

This particular crime scene did not disappoint.

"So," Hendriksen said, glancing around at seven other cops, most of the local. "What do we have here?"

"Well, Sir," the sheriff started, clearing his throat a few times for good measure. Clearly postponing the moment as much as possible. "We uh…we seem to have footage of one of the Winchester brothers shooting and killing a young gas pump attendant."

"Seem to?" Hendriksen echoed, doubtfully. "You either have it or you don't. If you have it, you were supposed to find it. The Winchesters don't leave behind anything they don't want us to see."

A few of the younger ones gave each other shifty glances. One of them even looked a little amused at the obvious discomfort of the older sheriff, who in turn gave an irritable grunt.

"I haven't given it a particularly thorough examination myself," he admitted under his breath.

Hendriksen's lip curled up at the corner a little. "Let me get this straight, Sheriff. You've been stationed here at this crime scene for three and a half hours before my arrival. You think you might have footage of one of the Winchester brothers…"

"Sam," a young deputy cut in helpfully. "It's Sam Winchester."

"Thank you, of Sam Winchester committing a murder – without his brother, no less which would make it a case precedent thus far. You're telling me you haven't given it a thorough examination yet?" Hendriksen reeled off incredulously. "You trying to find a way out of your job, Sheriff?"

The old man bristled. "Hey, don't hit me with all that bullshit, alright? I do my job, I've been doing my job for thirty years now and I am not gonna degrade myself by watching that fuckin' degenerate psychopath forcing himself on a boy I've known since he was baby!"

Hendriksen was silent a beat. "He raped the kid?" he asked, almost casually, with a glance down at the dead body not three feet away from where they were all standing. "Guy's still in his overalls."

The sheriff looked like he was about to have an aneurysm when the helpful young deputy stepped forward, obviously trying to avert disaster.

"The tape's inside, Sir. If you'd like to see it yourself, maybe."

"Show me," Hendriksen said and let him lead the way. Once inside, surrounded by the smell of car oil, cigarettes and coffee, the deputy pressed play on an old VCR. He then tactfully left Hendriksen to it. Outside, the old sheriff was kicking off about the degradation of society and the world going to hell. Victor watched the screen with the kind of avid attention that effortlessly blocked out everything else but what he was focused on.

The footage was silent, but crystal clear. Sam Winchester pulling up in the Impala, without his brother. The attendant filling up the car while Sam leaned insolently against the side of it. Nothing for a few moments, except the poor soon-to-be-dead kid watching Sam. Then just as the kid put the pump back, Sam started talking. Hendriksen watched his mouth move, wished he could hear the words. The kid moved closer, touched him, fucking kissed him and then Sam pushed himself backwards onto the hood of the vintage car.

When the kid went down on Sam, Hendriksen let out a little moan and was fervently pleased the deputy had left him alone to see this first hand. He could see why the sheriff would have stopped the tape right there, unable to watch any more. Hendriksen couldn't look away.

It progressed quickly as the kid made some colossal fuck-up. Sam retreated into the car for a gun. He then shot him to death. Emptied the entire clip. Sam got in the car, after yelling something at the dead body, and then drove away.

It was the first time San Winchester had ever killed anyone without Dean Winchester. They were always together. Hendriksen couldn't help but feel a little thrill of anticipation. What had changed? What would the next call bring? Maybe Sam had gone rogue without his stupid, overly protective brother. Even if he hadn't, this had to go towards disproving the theory of their incestuous relationship, surely?

But then Sam hadn't looked very enthused. In fact, Hendriksen had to admit he'd seen more heat in the younger brother's eyes when he had been wiping spleen juice off his sleeve.

Hendriksen sighed. He didn't relish having to go outside and inform Nervous Breakdown Sheriff that he'd be doing an oral swab on the attendant to get his hands on Sam's DNA. Nor did he exactly like the fact that he would have to give this tape over almost right away, without even being able to make himself a copy.

Still, it was yet another step closer. It was only a matter of time now. Soon he wouldn't be staring at Sam through recorded footage or file photos. It would be Sam Winchester in the flesh.

That would be worth the chase indeed.

The scenery surrounding them was really quite beautiful, Dean had to admit. He would never call himself a lover of aesthetics, but the way the sun was setting around them, leaving a burning blaze of fiercely dying light – it was breathtaking. Even better, Sammy was sighing happily at the sight. It had been a strangely tense day, despite the 'discussion' that had taken place last night. Dean had half been waiting for Sam to start yelling at him again or something, but so far he'd just been quiet.

That was almost worse.

The desert around them seemed endless. The occasional hill, few cactus trees and nothing much else. Dean was slightly concerned that Sam's navigational skills had fucked up a ways back but he wasn't going to say anything. The kid was so damned smart he'd probably just found a brand new shortcut that would save them days of driving to get where they wanted to be.

"Looks like the sky is on fire," Sam said under his breath, gazing upwards at the brilliant red and orange flare, backlit by the retreating sun. He was leaning on one arm against the window, dreamily gazing out at the world beyond their car.

"Maybe it is," Dean replied, gauging his brother's reaction. A tiny little smile tugged at the corner of those lips he'd known and loved intimately for so long.

"Can't be yet," his little brother sighed. "We haven't had enough time."

Dean frowned and lightly slapped the underside of Sam's chin to wake him up a little. "Baby, you're drifting. Come back here, 'cause I can't navigate worth a damn," he tried in a joking sort of way.

Sam blinked for the first time in a while, slowly and then looked at Dean. "I'm here," he said, but Dean wasn't convinced.

"Is it….is it that dream you had last night, Sammy?" he asked gently.

Sam didn't respond, only pointed up ahead and said, "Turn left, I think there's a town."

"Sam, don't shut me out," Dean warned, taking the turn off the highway and onto what looked disturbingly like a dirt road. "C'mon, tell me what it was about."

Last night Dean had been in one of the deepest sleeps of his life, Sam wrapped around him, when he'd felt Sam start to shake and writhe. He'd awoken to the sounds of Sam screaming. He only stopped when Dean shook him violently to wake him. He 'd managed to mutter that it'd been a bad dream, before falling back into a fitful sleep.

"Was it about John?" Dean asked after a few beats of silence while the Impala made her way carefully over the rocky trail leading into wide open desert.

Sam flashed Dean a look; hurt, annoyed and unprepared for such a question. "No," was his short answer. "It wasn't."

Dean had nothing to say to that so he kept driving, mind miles away from the desert they were heading into. It took another half an hour of uncomfortable silence for the car give out and for Dean to kick himself because the car needed gas and he hadn't been paying attention.

The car came to a rolling halt in the middle of nothing, nowhere; wide open desert bathed in the light purple of dusk.

"Fuck!" Dean yelled, getting out of the car and slamming the door hard. "Turn left? Turn left to what you stupid bitch?"

Sam was out of the car, eyes a furious shade of dark. "You stupid bitch? You stupid bitch? That's what John used to call me, Dean! Christ, I thought you'd be more creative than that!"

Furious, Dean looked around at what had previously been attractive surroundings. " Birds, snakes, ain't nothing out here. Right now I'd go down on a lawman for a gallon of gas!"

Sam snickered and reached into the back grabbing his bag from the back seat. "I bet you would," he muttered.

"Ah, what the fuck is that supposed to mean, Sam? Huh? I am so sick of this bullshit! If you've got somethin' to say to me just say it!" Dean spat, spinning to face his little brother who glared back with unpleasantly cold eyes.

"You want me to say it? OK, fine. I guess I'm just waiting for the time to come when you get bored of me, Dean. When you decide to move on." The words seemed to have been wrenched from Sam's throat. "I mean, we talked last night, sure and yeah I thought it would be enough but then…" He trailed off, losing his voice for a moment.

"Then what?" Dean demanded, fists clenched and shaking. "Then what?"

"The dream," Sam said with his eyes closed. "The fucking dream."

"Oh, so we're getting somewhere finally!" Dean exploded, even though Sam didn't flinch or seem remotely threatened. "So c'mon, Sam – what was this dream? Did I fuck the entire human race or something?"

"You left me," Sam said, eyes narrowing.

"You know I'd never do that," Dean growled. "I wouldn't even know how!"

"I've seen it," Sam insisted. "Over the next few days something's gonna happen and I'm gonna lose you."

Trying to remain calm, remembering what a tempestuous disposition Sam had, Dean rubbed a weary hand over his itching, dry eyes and said, "Sam, it was a dream for fuck's sake! A dream, OK?"

"You know that my dreams are significant, Dean! Sometimes they happen!"

"Yeah and sometimes they don't!"

"But this one will!"

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because it's obvious that you're gonna leave me! I'm not…" Sam's breath hitched and caught. "I'm not good enough for you."

Dean's heart twisted and wrenched inside his chest. "Fuck, Sam, I know you're not that stupid! Listen to me! I'm not gonna leave you! I would have to be dead or dragged away in chains to leave you and if anyone isn't good enough in this insanity, it's me!"

Silence for a while, the echo of rattlesnakes and lizards in the distance over the darkening land. "This isn't us," Sam said very quietly. "We've never been like this."

Dean closed his eyes. "I know."

"Why is this happening?"

"Everyone fights, Sammy. The only people who don't are zombies; dead inside, no passion."

"We should be dead inside, Dean. All that shit he did to us," Sam whispered, staring at Dean.

"But we're not," Dean told him firmly. "We're alive and he's not and that is all that matters. So yeah we're fucked up, yeah we're both beyond redemption but who wants that anyway? The approval of a world I want to destroy for what it let happen to us? It's bullshit, Sammy. You're the only thing in the world that matters to me, baby. You're the only thing that matters."

Sam watched Dean carefully the entire time and when he spoke, he seemed to have made his mind up. "You won't leave me," he said, conviction behind it. "Not if you can help it."

"Never," Dean swore. "You're everything." He moved towards Sam and watched as his brother relaxed a little. He took him by the hand, giving him a rough tug forward. "Like I said, wild horses."

They kissed with dry, cracked lips and desperate groans vanishing into the rapidly cooling desert air. The hissing of lizards and snakes was growing louder by the minute.

"Maybe we should walk and get gas," Sam suggested after a few minutes of tangling themselves together.

"Fuck me in the car first?" Dean suggested, breathless with dark, heady desire pulsating through him.

Sam rubbed his nose against Dean's back and forth, swaying a little as he hummed the strange song. "Need to keep moving," he sang. "Car won't move without gas."

"Well, which way?" Dean gasped, untangling himself from his little brother.

"The way we were headed. I told you, there's a town."

As it turned out, there was a town, only it was deserted. Looked like it had been for years from what Dean could make out in the thin light of a couple of drying flashlights. Seriously, he needed to keep the car and the kit under better maintenance. Ordinarily, he always kept a spare canister of gas in the trunk, but they'd used it to burn down a motel Sammy hadn't liked very much a few towns back and it had slipped Dean's mind to refill it.

"Fuckin' ghost town," Dean said, shining the light over broken windows and dark buildings, all boarded up. "Think there's a gas station?"

"Should be," Sam said, looking around with obvious fascination. "What do you think happened here?"

Dean smiled. "Want me to make up a story for you? Like the old days?"

He could tell Sam was smiling when he replied, "Not the same if we're not on the hood of the car."

After a few more minutes walking amongst the empty buildings, Dean began to get the feeling they were being watched. He managed to catch Sam's attention, beautiful dark eyes gleaming in the moonlight from above and signal silently that they weren't alone. If Dean had learned one thing from his childhood training, it was to trust his instincts. There was a series of noises; scuffling, creaking, shifting weight over an old floor. All coming from a small liquor shop, front windows smashed in completely, door torn off the hinges.

Sam already had his gun out. Dean drew slowly, aiming at the dark doorway. They were about to go inside, when a voice made them both freeze.

"Come on in."

Sam shot Dean a confused glance; the voice had a heavy accent, Spanish perhaps.

"Come on in," the man repeated.

Cautiously, Dean lead the way inside through a narrow hallway and into a small room, containing a flickering fire and an old, wrinkled man sitting beside it. Sam in tow, Dean headed towards it gun still aimed at the man.

"Hey," he said, glancing around. "You the only person left in this town?"

"Come on in," the man said again, gesturing for them both to sit.

"You speak any other English?" Dean asked, refusing the lower the gun.

"Dean," Sam implored, placing his own gun in the back of his pants. "Don't be a jerk."

Years of training going against him, Dean grudgingly lowered the gun and holstered it away, eyeing the man mistrustfully.

"Español?" Sam asked, curling the accent beautifully around his tongue. Dean felt a little distracted. "Me llamo Sam. Este es el Dean."

The old man looked up from the fire, eyes twinkling. He cocked his head at them and gestured for them sit down once more. They did so, warily.

"Ask him if he has gas," Dean said under his breath, placing his hands near the fire for warmth.

"Tiene usted la gasolina?" Sam asked, and Dean struggled not to get a hard on there and then just hearing it. Fuck how did his brother make rudimentary Spanish sound so fucking hot?

The man said nothing, just watched them both as if they were a mildly interesting television show. Then he reached over and pulled a bottle of tequila from some shadowy corner. He pushed it towards them both.

"You can't be serious," Dean chuckled, though he did desperately want something to help him sleep. "Sam, no way are we drinking…Sam!"

Sam had already grabbed it and taken a slug. He eased off the bottle with a gasp and a scrunched up face that was almost adorable. Sam never drank and Dean rarely did either, it reminded him too much of John. Dean always preferred to be totally in control of himself and everything around him.

"Oh fuck that is nasty!" Sam said with a grimace as he offered it to Dean. "C'mon, Dean, don't be rude."

"It could be drugged," Dean tried to say but Sam just rolled his eyes.

"The guy's let us in here, given us heat and shelter and it's fuckin' cold out there. If he wanted us to die, he just had to let us freeze our asses off out there."

"I can think of a few ways we could keep warm," Dean suggested with a wink, but he took the bottle from Sam anyway and swigged the foul tasting liquid. "Ohhh that is fuckin' nasty!"

An hour later Dean's eyelids were heavy and leaden. Sammy had fallen asleep on his lap minutes ago and the old man was sitting cross legged, eyes closed, chanting gently to himself.

Dean didn't realise he had fallen asleep even after the dream began.

He was running. He was always running.

Running fast, through woods and trees and darkness. It laughed at him because he was small and weak and his legs were useless. There was something behind him, toying with him. Much faster, stronger, bigger. It was going to catch him, eat him alive and spit out the bones. He couldn't breathe; could only keep running, screaming out words he didn't understand while the thing behind him closed in.

The trees were trying to trip him up, the moon hid away behind clouds; it didn't want to witness him be eaten alive. There was no-one, nothing to help and he was going to be devoured…chewed and bitten until he broke and died, lost inside the thing chasing him.

He tripped and fell hard, slamming into the ground. The thing had its claws on him before he could start to scream, tearing his flesh into ribbons and he was drenched in his own blood.

"My good little soldier!" the thing snarled, plunging the claws into his chest, through his ribs and into his thundering heart.

"NO!"

When his vision cleared and the world around him came into focus, the first thing Dean knew was that his gun was in his hand and it was smoking. He followed the path the bullets had made and saw that he had shot the old man.

"Oh fuck," he gasped.

"Dean! Dean what the fuck did you do?" Sam demanded, scrambling over to the dying man who was muttering slurred Spanish. Dean knew the death rattle when he heard it. He stormed outside, gun still in his hand. The moon was nowhere in sight, total darkness all around him and he was still shaking like a fucking leaf from that remnants dream.

"What the fuck, Dean?" Sam demanded as he came outside. "You killed him!"

"It was an accident!" Dean insisted, trying to control his voice. "This whole thing was crazy, should never have gone in there! What did he say to you!"

"He said he saw the demon in his dreams, twenty years ago. He knew the demon was going to kill him, he was waiting for it."

"Demon?" Dean echoed, mind reeling back to the horrific dream, claws and teeth eating away at him. "The guy was crazy!"

"I'm pretty sure he meant you!" Sam yelled, yanking his rucksack over his shoulder.

"Oh please! All the fuckin' people we've killed and you're bitching at me for this?"

"He helped us, Dean! He took us in there, he didn't have to do that!"

"I didn't mean it, Sammy! It was a fucking accident!" Sam was silent as he headed away from Dean. "Where you going?" Dean shouted, voice echoing and bouncing off the walls of the empty town.

"Gas station up ahead," Sam snapped and Dean followed him.

Half an hour later, Sam hadn't said anything else. They were trekking back across the desert, full canister of gas in tow when Dean heard the rattles.

"Sammy, wait up," he called. Sam didn't slow down. "Sam, I'm serious; stop for a minute!"

"Stop for wh-ahhh! The fuck was that? Owww, fuck that hurts!"

Shit. "Sam, there's fuckin' snakes everywhere man! Just stay where you are!"

Dean poured some gasoline over the ground and then lit it with his Zippo. The surrounding area was littered with rattlesnakes, curled up and hissing furiously. Sam was a good twenty feet ahead of him, holding his ankle up. There had to be hundreds of them.

"Don't move!" he yelled at Sam. "I'm comin'!"

"I think I'm…I've been bitten," Sam told him, a slight slur to his tone. Dean manoeuvred his way around the snakes, careful not to tread on any. They snapped their jaws, trying to bite him anyway. By the time he got to Sam, his little brother was swaying dangerously. He was about to fall when Dean caught him and heaved him upwards, bearing as much of his weight as he could, arm around his waist. "Rattlesnake venom is bad, Dean," he was saying, as though it was a fascinating fact. "Gets into the blood very fast."

"Thanks for the newsflash, genius," Dean said, cold with sweat. He didn't know which way to go, how to get there without them both getting bitten to pieces. "Fuck! Sammy, wake up! Which way is the car? Do you remember?"

Sam's eyes were rolling and Dean had to slap him a few times to get him remotely lucid. "The car? Lost the car?"

"C'mon, baby brother – you're the navigator, right? Which way do we go? I was following you," Dean said, trying to laugh like he wasn't fraught with panic.

Sam sobered for a second or two and then limply raised his hand and pointed. "Tha' way."

They managed to get back to the car, but not before Dean had received a few bites of his own to the ankles. By the time he'd poured the gas into the hungry car, he could barely see straight.

"Gonna be OK, Sammy," he slurred, starting the engine and trying to shake himself out of it. The poison was working it's way through his blood, turning it black and thick. "We're gonna be OK."

"Need anti-venin," Sam said, almost conversationally. "Drug store. Get back on Highway 666." He laughed. "666! Like...evil numbers!"

"Shouldn't go through that town," Dean said, wiping sweat from his eyes. They went back the way they came, the dirt road blurring before him. "Too many cops."

"No other choice," Sam told him. "My fault for making us come out here."

"Hardly," Dean said, wondering why the road was so dark and then realising he hadn't turned the lights on yet. "My fault for not getting enough gas. My fault for shooting that guy."

Sam looked directly at Dean with the sweetest smile that threatened to break Dean's heart. "I forgive you, baby," he said in that beautiful voice that was made to sing.

Once they were back on the highway, it was thirty four miles to the next town.

"Not far now, Sammy," he said, nudging his little brother to keep him awake. "How about you speak some of that Spanish to me, huh? Pretty sexy the way you talk like that."

"Feel cold, Dean," Sam whispered. "Tired."

"I know, but you gotta stay awake. Not gonna go out like this, dammit!" Dean insisted furiously. "Not far now, just hang on, OK?"

"OK," Sam said trying to sit up in his seat. When he began to sing, Dean put his foot down harder on the pedal than he'd ever done before, not caring what damage he did to the car.

The motel was cheap and dirty; the kind Hendriksen knew the Winchesters often stayed in. Perfect for whores and other indiscretions, he thought to himself while his own whore, bought and paid for the night, undressed over by the stagnant TV.

The boy was young, maybe not even of legal age, but that just made it all the more perfect. He was tall, dark haired and very attractive. If he blurred his eyes, Hendriksen could easily pretend it was Sam Winchester.

"So," the boy asked, turning around, naked and beautiful. "Are you a real cop?"

Lying on the bed, in nothing but his briefs, Hendriksen nodded and crooked a finger invitingly.

"Yeah, I'm a real cop."

The boy made his way over to him, obviously a little nervous. That was good, it made Hendriksen hard, wanting those little insecurities.

"What was the name you wanted to call me again?" the boy asked, pausing by the bed for a moment.

"Sam. I'm gonna call you Sam."

"OK. Cool. Kinda like Sam and Dean Winchester, huh?"

"You think they're cool?" Hendriksen asked, running a hand up and down his own thigh, watching the boy's eyes following it.

"Sure, I mean I wouldn't want them coming near me or anything, but yeah, I guess. So it's like, your job to stop them?"

Hendriksen smiled. "It's my job to keep the world safe from murderers. Now come over here, lay down here on the bed."

The boy did as he was told, laid down besides Hendriksen who moved so he was halfway on top of him. "Gimme a kiss, Sam," he instructed. The boy leaned up and pressed a kiss to his mouth. "Good, that's good. You ever been strangled?"

It came out of nowhere really. The blinding urge to murder, kill and taste what Sam and Dean tasted every day. The poor boy struggled and clawed for oxygen but Hendriksen was too strong. The boy managed to dig his nails into the sides of Hendriksen's cheeks and drag downwards, making the Agent scream. He continued to squeeze until the boy's body went limp and his eyes turned lifeless and flat.

Out of breath, turned on beyond anything he'd ever felt before, Hendriksen fell backwards gasping, "Sammy! I'm comin' to get you!"

The world was a violent shade of toxic green and everything seemed to be melting. Dean tried to shake himself into sobriety as they paced the long aisles of the 24 hour drug store in search of the antivenin. Behind him, walking very slowly, was Sam.

"Dean, I don't think I'm…gonna make it," Sam said, through what sounded like numb lips.

"You'll make it, Sammy! Just get mad at me, that'll help. Nothin' like a little adrenaline to burn through this shit, huh?"

Sam let out a soft giggle. "Can't stay mad at you, big brother."

Dean reached the aisle they needed, except that the shelves were lined with signs saying, 'ANTIVENIN - SOLD OUT'

"Fuckin' wonderful," Dean groaned, muscles burning with the effort of remaining upright. "Sammy, 'm gonna go to the counter to get the stuff. You just…just stay there, OK?"

Sam was on his knees, rubbing his face, but managed to say, "OK." Dean headed over to where a large Asian man was staring open mouthed at a small TV screen. He looked terrified. For a moment, Dean thought he might have been watching a horror movie, but it was only some news report.

"Hey, excuse me there chief!" Dean said, tapping the glass. "Rattlesnake took a chunk out of us a few miles back. Me and my partner could be dying, you never can tell about these things. So how's about you unglueing your fat ass from that chair and getting us some medicine. Pronto!"

The clerk was sweating badly as he waddled to his feet and began nervously rattling around the shelves in search of what Dean had asked for.

"Found it yet?" Dean snapped and the clerk dropped something he was holding. Dean's eyes went to the screen. He was mildly surprised to see himself, only ten years younger, staring back. An irritatingly perfect British voice was narrating.

"…now thought to have been connected to several unexplained deaths and desecrations since the age of twelve. This would make them far more formidable than anyone has thus far anticipated. It is now also thought that the boys killed their own Father; marking the beginning of the slaughterhouse road-show that would catapult them into the public's attention."

"Well I'll be damned," Dean chuckled to himself. "Hey, Sammy…"

And then he realised why the clerk was so nervous. Why he'd stayed still for so long before Dean had to ask him to get up. He'd triggered the silent alarm.

"You fuckin' piece of shit!" Dean snarled, drawing his gun and shooting through the glass. "Sammy! Bring the car around!" He climbed up into the booth, the obese clerk trembling and waving his flabby arms in the air for mercy. "Snake bite juice, now!" he demanded, thrusting the gun into his face. Not that he felt quite so severely poisoned anymore; the burst of fury seemed to be eating through the worst of it, but he needed it for Sammy. Sammy had been bitten so much worse than Dean.

"We've run out!" the clerk sobbed. "I swear!"

"Well then I guess you're shit outta luck, you fucking squealer!"

Dean shot him full in the face, blood splattering everywhere. Little pieces of brain matter landed over the pristine white floor and walls. Dean turned to go find his Sammy.

That was when he knew something was wrong.

The world slowed down inexplicably. Everything came to a jarring halt and Dean could see it coming in super slow motion. In the back his mind, he heard Sammy's voice, sighing, "I forgive you, baby."

There were flashing lights, blue and red; way too many for him to count. Dean wasn't stupid, he knew what that many cops meant. He headed towards the front of the store and stopped when he saw Sammy laying into five of them. Smashing noses, breaking bones and twisting arms right out of sockets screaming and howling like a wild animal. One cop let out a wet gurgle as Sam tore into his larynx, all breathtaking fury and force. More of them were coming, brakes screeching to a halt as they arrived. An endless supply. Jesus, it must have been every cop from three states over.

Dean shot as many as he could see, most of them nearest to his brother. "Sam!" he yelled, shooting another and then ducking as twenty or so cops opened fire at him. He ran along the length of the drug store, taking shots where he could while the bullets whizzed past him so close he could feel the air whistling by. Sammy was smashing his hands into anything he could find. It took six of them to even hold him down. As Dean ducked, he caught a glimpse of someone wearing a suit grabbing Sam by the throat and dragging him over to the store.

"HEY YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE! THIS IS AGENT VICTOR Hendriksen! NOW YOU PUT THAT GUN DOWN AND WALK OUT HERE NOW!"

"FUCK YOU, PIECE OF SHIT COP!" Dean shouted back, snapping a fresh magazine of rounds into his .45. "YOU COME ON IN HERE AND GET ME!"

"YOU WALK OUT HERE OR I'LL CUT HIS FUCKING THROAT!"

Sam was still screaming himself raw. "KILL 'EM ALL, DEAN! KILL 'EM ALL!" And then he was cut off, presumably by Hendriksen's hand over his mouth. Just the thought of it made Dean's blood boil. He chanced a glance over the top of the windowsill, in time to see Hendriksen press a blade into Sam's throat hard enough for it to bleed. Fuck, he couldn't do it…

"Alright!" he shouted, taking a deep breath. He stood up, hands and guns in the air. He walked almost casually to the door. "I'm comin' out!"

"Keep your fucking hands where I can see them!" Hendriksen demanded, knife still jammed against Sam's soft skin. Precious blood ran in rivulets down his beautiful throat.

Dean slid his guns out across the polished floor and then lifted his hands back up with all the insolence he could manage. "Come on and get the big bad wolf," he taunted, walking outside. His eyes were trained on Sam who was still snarling and struggling violently against Hendriksen.

"Alright, somebody take this bitch!" Hendriksen ordered and four cops rushed over to grab Sam from him. They threw him to the ground and started beating him with batons. Dean watched it, teeth grinding together so hard he was going to crack the enamel.

"Every single one of you who touches him is gonna die bloody," he snarled as Hendriksen gave him a smug, patronising smile.

"Cuff him," he said. Two of his men rushed over with handcuffs. They pushed Dean down, about to lock them into place when he sprung up with a knife from the back of his boot. He slashed the nearest cop's face; slicing his cheek right open and blood sprayed everywhere like a bottle of champagne. For a moment, there seemed to be blind panic and it wiped the smug smile off Hendriksen's face.

"My face!" the cop screamed, stumbling backwards and falling spectacularly on his ass. Dean laughed and swung again, daring them to come closer. Behind them, he could see them kicking Sammy while he lay curled up on the ground, silent and stoic now.

"You'd better kill me now," Dean growled with a violent, deranged smile. "Because I'm gonna get creative on your mother fuckin' asses when I get my hands on you and it's gonna be brutal!"

Hendriksen's eyes narrowed. "You're not important enough to make a martyr yet, Winchester. Shock this piece of shit!"

Then came the tasers. He fell back, body convulsing with the shocks tearing through his body. He saw the sky above him, stars staring down at him benignly and he managed to smile before the world blackened and faded.

Reviews are the stuff dreams are made of.