A/N: More sexy funtime with Sam and Dean! Also more angst and more plot, so yeah, there's a story here. Or at least some semblance of one (yeah, that's how I get to sleep at night… don't judge). If you like the story, I hope you'll take a moment to let me know. I know it's a hard sell, what with the double pairing and all, but stick with it! There are rewards to be reaped (I think, anyway)!

Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, but I do own the book Bobby's reading from. Okay, not literally. But I did make it up, all in my own head. So there.

"So, is this some sort of Bible thing again?" Dean says, tapping a pencil against Bobby's desk and peering over his shoulder.

Bobby shakes his head. "Not exactly. Near as I can tell, this comes from around the same time, but the texts were never admitted into the canon."

"Canon?" Dean asks, crossing his arms over his chest and glancing over at Sam.

"King James Version," he says.

"And every other version since then," Bobby adds.

Dean frowns. "So it's like, what? The Apocrypha or something?" Sam's eyebrows are practically above his hairline, and Dean rolls his eyes. He does read, on occasion.

"Something like that," Bobby confirms. "But more obscure. This is like, the Apocrypha to the Apocrypha."

"So what's it mean for us, now?" Sam asks, leaning over and putting his palms flat on the desk. Dean is distracted for a moment by how big Sam's hands are, tan and thin with broad, flat knuckles. He remembers those hands, curved around his hips earlier that morning, and he feels something between shame and lust flare in his belly.

"Dean?" Sam says, and he realizes he's completely zoned out of the conversation.

"Yeah," he says gruffly, then coughs, covering the bottom half of his flushed face with his hand, refusing to meet Sam's gaze. Bobby glances up at him for a moment, but quickly turns his attention back to his book. He shakes his head and tells himself to stay in the game.

"What're we looking at here, Bobby?" he asks, not entirely certain he wants to know.

"Well, it ain't easy to decipher," Bobby begins, flipping to a page imprinted with a particularly gruesome etching of a demon ripping the limbs off a human woman, her eyes wide in horror, mouth open in a soundless scream. In the background, angels with unfurled wings are taking part in the slaughter, swords drawn against both demons and humans. Dean blinks and looks away, feeling slightly sickened.

"I can't be sure, but it seems like this here's a roadmap to Apocalypse Part Two," Bobby says, voice grim.

Sam shakes his head. "How's that even possible, Bobby? Lucifer's still locked up, as far as we know, and Michael, too. What's left to fight over?"

Bobby frowns, and his eyes go dark and sad. "Can't believe I didn't even think to look at this before," he mutters, almost to himself.

"What, Bobby?" Dean asks, wishing he'd just cut to the chase already. He has no more patience for all this talk of apocalypse and holy war. He wants Bobby to give him something to kill, put a gun in his hand and point him toward the target.

"It's not that easy," Bobby says, as if reading his mind. "What happened, Lucifer and Michael and all the rest of it, that was just phase one. If this is right," he says, fingertips brushing the tattered edges of the pages, "then we are fast approaching phase two."

"Phase two?" Sam says, and Dean feels his stomach drop. It isn't over. Lucifer's gone and he's got Sam back and that sure as shit makes everything worth it, but it isn't over. He feels nauseous, and he thinks of Lisa, has a brief flash of memory, of her making him hot tea on that first night, after Sam. He hates tea, always made fun of Sam for drinking it, but he drank it then, holding the mug close to his chest even though it burned his hands, telling himself that for just that one minute, maybe he was gonna survive this.

And he had, but only because Sam had survived too, even if he didn't know that at the time. But now… now, if they have to start all over again, pick up the pieces and march back into war…

The same familiar feeling of exhaustion, of being too tired to care about a goddamn thing, washes over him, so strong his knees nearly buckle with it. He chances a glance over at Sam's face, and he can see the weariness and fear reflected in his brother's eyes. He looks down and can see it in the hunch of Bobby's shoulders.

They aren't ready for this. They aren't ready to do it all over again. They can't. Physically, emotionally… they're tapped. Dean knows this, but he also knows that he'll do whatever it takes to keep Sam here, keep him whole, even if it means fighting the whole damn world.

"So which one of Hell's bitches is comin' after us this time?" he asks, voice a little bitter, but determined.

Bobby shakes his head. "It ain't just Hell this time, boy. And they ain't comin' for us."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam asks, casting an uneasy look over at Dean.

"They got bigger fish to fry."

"Who's they?" Dean asks.

"The demons," Bobby answers. "And the angels. All of 'em."

"What?"

"It's gonna be a war this earth ain't never seen before. Heaven and Hell are both in revolt, and they're all pissed as hell about what happened with Lucifer and Michael." Bobby closes the book, and Dean can see his hand is trembling.

"So?" he says, throwing up his familiar old bravado. "More power to 'em, right? They kill off each other, makes our jobs a hell of a lot easier."

"Yeah, but last time you might recall the angels tried to protect the earth, demons too. They each wanted to make it their own personal playground."

"Yeah, it was gonna be like Disneyland all the time," Dean says, waving a hand dismissively. "So?"

"So this time, they don't give a giant flyin' crap about the earth, or the people on it," Bobby says. "This time, they're bent on destroying the other side, casualties be damned."

"Casualties meaning…" Sam trails off, and Dean can sense his resigned fear.

"The earth," Bobby says. "The whole human race. Hell, the whole damned galaxy, if they get the notion."

Dean is having a hard time thinking up a snappy comeback to that, and so he stands there, struck dumb by what Bobby is saying, racking his brain to come up with something, anything that might sound remotely like a solution or a plan of action.

"Well, fuck," is what he comes out with instead, and really, what more do they expect out of him? But neither Bobby or Sam even flinch, and Dean can see from the set of their shoulders that they're both mentally echoing his sentiment.

"Wait," Sam says, after a minute, and Dean hates the surge of hope that bubbles up inside him. "How do we know this text is even the real deal? Are there signs or omens we should be looking for? And what about me? I'm not at risk of becoming Lucifer's vessel anymore, so why would either side bring me back?"

What he said, Dean thinks, but he doesn't say it.

Bobby shakes his head and taps the book's leather cover. "It's prophecy," he says slowly, and it takes a minute for that to sink in. "Signed, sealed and delivered from this guy's lips to God's ears."

"I am gonna kill Chuck so hard," Dean growls, curling his hands into fists.

"This ain't Chuck we're dealing with, boy. This is ancient - written before he was even a twinkle in God's eye."

"So then where did this come from?" Sam asks, shifting his hip to lean against the desk. "Who's the prophet?"

"Guy by the name of Matthias," Bobby says. "Lived around the time of John the Baptist, close as I can tell. According to some other ancient scrolls, he mysteriously vanished, supposedly taken up to Heaven to live with the angels."

"And if he was a prophet, he would've had an archangel looking out for him," Sam says, and Dean thinks he can see the start of an idea forming behind his eyes.

"An immortal angel," Bobby says, and Sam nods.

"Exactly. And if we can track him down…" He leaves the sentence hanging, and Dean feels that sinking sensation in his stomach again. More fucking angels. He looks up and realizes both Sam and Bobby are staring at him expectantly.

"What?" he snaps. "My direct line to heaven's been disconnected, remember? I don't have Cas on speed dial anymore." It stings, even to say it, and he feels that old familiar pang in his chest.

Sam's eyes go all liquid and understanding, and Dean looks steadfastly away from the pity he sees there.

"He's come before," he says, voice low and gentle. "When you've asked. Maybe if you try it again, maybe if you… pray… he'll come."

Dean huffs out a disbelieving laugh, already adamantly shaking his head. "Not gonna happen, Sammy. Cas left of his own free will. And we gave it to him, remember?"

"Dean -"

"I said no, Sam."

Sam's mouth flattens into a thin line, but he says nothing. Dean has a sinking suspicion this isn't the last he's heard about it, though, not if he knows Sam and his damned pestering.

"Well," Bobby says, pushing himself wearily up from the desk, looking as if he's aged twenty years in twenty minutes, "I got a few favors to call in. I'll head over to Mission Ridge - I know a guy there may have some artifacts, more books."

"We need fucking swords," Dean mutters, "not books."

Bobby lets the comment slide, and he's out the door without so much as a goodbye. Dean goes over to one of the chairs and slumps down in it, scrubbing a hand over his face. He doesn't look up until he feels Sam's presence towering above him.

"Dean," Sam begins, but before he can get any further, Dean's fingers are hooked in his belt loops and he's yanking him forward into the triangle of his open legs.

The inside of Dean's thighs are pressed against Sam's knees, and even with Dean slouched back in the chair, he's practically at eye-level with Sam's crotch. Sam's suddenly very interested crotch.

His hands are undoing Sam's fly then, and without even thinking much about it, he's leaning forward, pressing his face against the denim and breathing in Sam's scent.

"Are you… are you just doing this to shut me up?" Sam says, with a desperate sort of laugh, and yeah, Dean thinks, he probably kind of is, but then he's got Sam's zipper down, and the whys suddenly don't seem to matter so much anymore.

Dean takes a moment to look at Sam then, really look at him, and it takes his breath away all over again, to see him alive and real and really there. He's also hard as a rock and fucking beautiful, and Dean thinks maybe he might mention this, but probably he won't. He's never really thought too much about his sexuality because he's never really had to. He loves women. He loves their curves and their softness and the way they sound. But he also loves Sam's strength and hard lines and fuck, does it really even matter, because Sam is right there and Dean wants this and when did he start analyzing shit like a 12-year-old girl, anyway?

Sam makes an impatient noise above him, and that's enough to get Dean moving. His hands drift to Sam's hips, pulling him closer, his breath ghosting over Sam's cock.

"Jesus, Dean," he breathes, jerking forward. Dean smiles, lets his mouth brush butterfly-wing soft against the tip, then raises his eyes to Sam's.

Sam is watching him hungrily, need and passion making his go bright and nearly-green, the way they did when he was a kid and he had a fever.

Dean doesn't know why any of this is happening, or what it will mean for the two of them on down the road, but he knows they need this now, and he for one is pretty damn glad he and Sam seem to be on the same page about that.

Sam's hands are on top of his then, squeezing hard in a silent plea, and Dean nods to himself, already knowing he'll do anything Sam asks. He takes him in his mouth slowly, inch by inch, getting accustomed to the feel and the taste of him and the weight of him against his tongue, and Sam pants raggedly above him. Dean can feel the tension coming off him in waves, as he tries to keep himself from thrusting forward.

He presses his fingertips into Sam's hips, telling him without words that it's okay to let go, and he begins to move. He goes slowly at first, taking it easy as he masters the basic up and down motion. Sam is twitching and making soft, stifled whimpering noises that are driving Dean fucking insane.

He lets Sam slip out of his mouth, pulling back a few centimeters to let his tongue explore. Sam's breath hitches when he licks up the underside, one hand coming up to grab the base in a firm grip.

Sam groans, gruff and loud, and Dean swallows him down all at once, his free hand drifting down from Sam's hip to rub the front of his jeans. He fumbles with the button and then the zipper, aching against the constraining fabric. He stops focusing on what his mouth is doing, and when it stills, Sam pushes forward, hard and demanding.

Finally, Dean has his cock free from his boxers and he pushes into his hand with quick, erratic thrusts, slick with precome and painfully hard. He sucks Sam down as far as he can, trying to keep time with his own pumping motions, but his rhythm is irregular and unsteady.

Sam doesn't seem to mind, though. He leans forward, arching over Dean, gripping the back of the chair and letting his head drop forward between his shoulder. Sweat drips off his forehead, and Dean can feel it hit his neck, sliding down to pool in the hollow of his collarbone. There's something intensely hot about that, and he groans around Sam's cock, thrilling at Sam's answering gasp.

He speeds up, and before long Sam is clamping a warning hand over his shoulder, squeezing so hard Dean is sure there'll be bruises. He makes an affirmative noise in the back of his throat, hoping Sam knows that means it's okay to let himself go. He must get the message, because seconds later he is jerking and coming down Dean's throat, the hand on his shoulder tightening painfully as he goes rigid for a moment before slumping down in a heap.

Dean's arms go up around him as he sinks to his knees, cradling him still in the vee of his legs. Sam rests his forehead on Dean's thigh, breathing as if he's just run a marathon, and Dean runs a soothing hand up and down his back.

Finally, Sam sits back on his heels, looking at Dean with the same combination of love and respect and awe in his eyes that he's had since he was a kid. Dean feels almost shy, and he looks away, suddenly exposed and naked in more than just the obvious way.

But then Sam's hand is on his cock, and Dean can't spare a thought for his feelings anymore, because what Sam is doing to him, it's… well, it's practically criminal, and Dean can't see straight, let alone think straight anymore.

Sam's movements are fast and firm and assured, and if Dean had the presence of mind to form a coherent thought, he'd wonder if Sam's done this before. But then Sam twists his wrist in that way, that secret way that Dean thought was just his, thought he must have discovered the way Columbus discovered America, but then again, Columbus didn't actually discover America, so it really was a pretty accurate comparison and - holy fuck why is he still thinking?

He gasps when Sam twists again, hips coming up out of the chair as spots dance in front of his eyes, and he's coming all over Sam's chest, and goddamnit, he's thinking that they'd better do laundry before Bobby gets back.

He leans forward as he comes down, forehead pressed into Sam's shoulder, and finally, finally the frantic buzzing in his head stops. He wonders for a moment if it's not really about the sex at all, if it's really about this, this peace he feels wrapped up against Sam, feeling him warm and solid under his cheek, feeling his heart galloping in his chest as their breath syncs and they drift together in a blissed-out haze.

Eventually, Dean realizes that Mission Ridge is only a twenty minute drive, and Bobby could actually come strolling in at any moment. He pulls away from Sam reluctantly, sticky-sated and too warm. Sam brushes a messy, open-mouthed kiss against his jaw, then pulls himself to his feet, reaching out a hand to haul Dean up. They tuck themselves in, then take turns in the shower.

Dean lets Sam go first, and when he hears the water start up, he walks out to the porch, leaning against the railing and soaking in the cool breeze. It smells like autumn, like leaves and fire and something spicy-sweet, and Dean thinks that summer won't be with them much longer.

He looks up at the sky, tinted pink at the edge of the horizon, and he sighs bone-deep, still feeling somehow empty, even with Sam back to fill in the void.

"Alright, then," he says, eyes cast upward. "You win. Okay? You fucking win. Just… just come back. We need help, Cas." Dean pauses, swallows over the lump that's risen in his throat. "Sam's back. He's back, and things are bad, maybe worse than before, and… I can't lose him, Cas. I can't lose him again. I lost… too much, before. So if you can help us, if you can… if you even give a damn…"

Dean closes his eyes, feeling the hot burn as tears build up behind his eyelids.

"Please," he whispers, clenching his hands into fists at his sides, and conjuring up an image of Cas in his mind, all messy dark hair and boring rumpled clothes, a stupidly clueless expression on his face. This only makes the tears come faster, and he blinks his eyes open, the image dissolving and fading from his mind.

He takes a deep breath and gives one long, last look at the sky before turning and pulling open the front door.

There's an angel standing in the foyer.