Dean's fingers play across Sam's nipples, the tips hopping like tiny pinkish frogs. There is no intent there, just daydreaming translating as motion. Sam sighs. "So, this one time, Chal and I broke into this high-end storage place, like where they keep thousand dollar bottles of wine and stuff. There's gonna be an auction the next day selling off this hexed mask, and we have to, like, wade through all these antiques with lot numbers to find the right one. It turned out that there were a lot of fetishes, not just the thing we were looking for, possessed doll, shrunken head carved up with runes, stuff like that. Our EMFs were going crazy. Turns out, they were selling off a dead hunter's estate."

Dean grunts. "Hard to hide shit like that when you're dead."

"Yeah."

The hotel room smells like sex and pizza, delicious and decadent. Sam wonders how long he could live like this, sitting in the Impala all day, sucking down to-go food all night, before he got fat. It'd probably be a while, since Dean is still fit, six-pack ab muscles still defined. They're great for licking, especially for the way they flex as Dean tries to hide his ticklishness , breath catching and lips locked close so as to not let out a peep. Sam wants to learn all his tells, wants to know all the things Dean's lips will never say. The weaknesses that he tries so hard to hide are as wonderfully Dean as his surface attributes, only adds more things for Sam to love.

And Sam does love Dean. He knows that now. He loves his strength and compassion, his taste in retro music and lame jokes, the way he shuts his eyes so tightly that his forehead wrinkles when Sam goes down on him and the even lengths of his sideburn trim. Loving Dean is as inescapable as passing time. It's just part of who he is.

"That's why Dad's got back-ups in place on his storage units. Hell, even I only know one of them." Sam can hear Dean smile, even though his eyes are closed. "And I think he only told me cause it's in Florida and he knows I won't go there unless it really is an emergency."

Dean's phone rings. They both look at the clock. It's four in the morning, too early to be anyone other than a fellow hunter. Hell, even hunters should be asleep by four, but then, not all hunters start epic lovemaking sessions after Letterman.

"Speak of the devil," says Dean, extracting himself from the blankets and Sam, one and the same for tentacle similarity.

"Tell him that I'm too fat from pizza to move."

"Yeah?" Dean asks the phone as he flips it open.

Sam pulls a pillow over his head. They really should have slept if they've got a case. He can only regret the lack of sleep so much; he'll always prefer making Dean shake and shiver, making him breathless and rosy-cheeked, to a full night's rest.

The conversation between father and son is short and Dean's side consists of lots of "yeah"s and "I understand"s. Sam groans, knowing that Dean's going to make him get out of bed soon. He stretches out his arm under Dean's pillow, finds a Starburst wrapper. He would think it was gross if he didn't find it so fucking adorably Dean. He grabs it between his fingers, pulls it close to his nose, and sniffs. He can't tell by smell which color it had been.

Abruptly, there is a Winchester atop him, weight pushing obnoxiously into the pillow and blankets, smothering him. "Sammy! We've got a demon to hunt!"

Sam struggles to get out from under the linens and the hot guy and, surfacing, gasps for the fresh air. "Ugh, get off me, Jerk!"

Dean's got the shine of excitement to his eyes. "A demon hunt, Sammy. What if this is the one?"

Sam gives a half-smile. "Then, it'll be good that it's my specialty." He wants to be enthusiastic, because he really desperately wants to help the Winchesters get some closure, finalize their revenge, but this is going to mean trying to sleep with his head pressed against vibrating window glass.

"Well… one of your specialties," flirts Dean. He kisses Sam, mouth still in a partial smile. Their teeth clack together and they both curse, fingers instinctively feeling at the pain in their mouths.

"Dumbass," ribs Sam. "Your breath friggin' reeks anyway."

"Blame your jizz for that." He jumps up from the bed, walks to the bathroom, sidestepping like a ninja the pillow thrown at his head. He does a cocky dance to celebrate his agility before usurping the shower. Sam shakes his head. Dumbass, he thinks fondly before snuggling back against the pillow. Dean'll wake him up when it's time to go.

"I'm glad I've never lived here," says Sam looking out at the shining buildings on the desert horizon. He's got his legs pulled up Indian-style beneath him and Fahrenheit 451 tucked into the space formed between his ankles and crotch. He'd found it impossible to pay attention to the book today, too excited about going after a demon, possibly helping Dean find the one that killed his mom.

"Why? Thought you were a lizard for heat like this?"

Sam shakes his head. "It's not the heat; it's the people."

Dean laughs. "Yeah, they're pretty messed up out here, huh? One time I saw these two old ladies beat the crap out of each other over a slot machine."

Sam's been to Las Vegas once and it had made him feel dirty, like he needed to wash the greed and desperation off. Even though there's plenty of demon prey to hunt here, deals just begging to be made, Chal never pushed him to move closer, understood that he couldn't take the atmosphere. "I think it has to do with my powers, a bit. Like I'm sensitive to just being around people who act like demons."

Dean's hand rubs at the nape of his neck. "That's my sensitive Sammy. You know, I hear he cries during sex."

That Sam doesn't correct Dean about which of the two of them have shed tears in bed, shows tremendous restraint, or maybe just the intensity of his desire to keep having bedroom moments at all, because if he was to actually say something, there's a good chance those opportunities would stop. "Well yeah, with how bad his boyfriend is in bed…"

The hand stops. Sam senses immediately that he misspoke. He's never said it out loud, though he's thought it roughly 6 million times since the summer started. "Boyfriend?" asks Dean.

"Beats violent moron?" jokes Sam weakly.

After several seconds and one held breath, Dean replies, "If I'm the boyfriend, does that make you the girlfriend?"

Sam laughs, Dean's joke pouring relief over his tense nerves. "See? Moron."

Sam merely rolls his eyes when the casino wench, as Dean refers to her and others of her ilk, offers Dean a drink. She's all curves and cosmetics, a perfect fit in the décor of feigned opulence. He can't be jealous of the way that Dean calls her "honey" or the way she flips her long blond hair because none of it is real, none of it means anything. Dean isn't going to fall in love with her and whisk her off to a four-bedroom house in the suburbs. It's like when he'd threaded the rope around Dean's wrists, merely a show.

The drink, a clear liquid that Sam doesn't have enough experience to identify, is small, just a mouthful for Dean. He makes a face after swallowing. "Get what you pay for," he says, tapping Sam's chest with the back of his hand. Sam looks at him, hoping to display his disdain fully.

"Think we got time for some poker?" asks Dean. "I've got a one hundred we could get cashed in for chips."

"I probably shouldn't play," says Sam, scooting close to Dean's ear before he speaks, not wanting others to hear. The woman hadn't offered him a drink and he's worrying now that the reason is because he's so very obviously not 21, 6'2" or not. Sam stands out like Darth Vader in a Where's Waldo puzzle. A quick glance at his appearance in one of the hundreds of mirrors that adorn the slot machine section only raises his concern about pulling this off because not only does he look his sixteen years, but he's also massively uncomfortable, like he's trying to be inconspicuous. "The waitress didn't think I was 21."

Dean's pupils are wider than they should be in the glitzy lighting; the realization that Dean actually likes this place, that he's feeding off the shallow, greedy atmosphere instead of being repulsed, disappoints Sam. He thinks his boyfriend is better than this.

"You can be my good luck charm." He waggles his eyebrows. "Blow on my dice, maybe?"

"Thought you wanted to play poker," says Sam, determined not to encourage him.

"Fine then, I can blow on your dice." He plants a kiss right on Sam's neck, right there in the middle of the casino. Sam can feel Dean's lips as he whispers, "You've never gotten sucked off in the men's room before…"

"Insatiable dickbag," mumbles Sam, pushing the older boy away because he's blushing so furiously that he's pretty sure he must resemble a stop light. "Try and focus a little!"

His embarrassment pleases Dean as much as it always does and Sam glares at the happy smile that is plastered across Dean's face. "Right, we've got an appointment soon." He checks his watch. "So, how do you want to kill an hour and a half then?"

There's lot of things they still need to do. They need to case the meetup location, find a place they can take the demon for interrogation (this part will be tricky under the watchful eye of Las Vegas security which is said to rival the government in its Big Brother capabilities), and get all their equipment to said location. They're running late, not early, and Dean would know that if he wasn't so dazzled by the stupid bright lights and jingling machines noises. "I'll go back to the hotel and get our things. You take a look around for places to take it."

Dean raises his eyebrow. "Getting kind of bossy there, Kid."

Sam nearly snaps something about how it's Dean that's acting like a kid, but he holds his tongue. This environment does bad things to him, makes him into someone he doesn't care like being. Instead, he thinks of the things he loves about Dean, smiles, and says, "Sorry. How would you like to do this?"

Dean shakes his head. "It sounded fine. Just didn't want my girlfriend thinking he can order me around."

"Outside the bedroom," says Sam even though it makes him feel shy to say in public.

Dean sticks his tongue out sheepishly, not refuting the charge. "Meet me back here in thirty."

Sam nods, turns to leave only to have his arm snagged by Dean's hand. He's confused by the gesture and by the expression on Dean's face and then by the way that Dean pulls him into his arms. He looks up, searching for the answer in Dean's face, finding a kiss instead, a gentle one, Dean's lips cushiony soft. "Be safe, okay?"

Monarch butterflies flap away in Sam's stomach as he realizes that Dean is concerned about his safety, that this is a demonstration of his affection. It may be as close to an "I love you" as he ever hears from Dean. He savors the feeling of warmth in his heart and around his shoulders, savors the sweet green of Dean's eyes and the way his tongue licks nervously at his own lip. It's overwhelming to love this much.

"Okay," he promises.

Giselle has long legs and delicate fingers. She often keeps her hair in a high bun to accentuate her neck, both long and delicate. When her eyes aren't black, they're a honey-colored brown. Giselle has spent so long in her current vessel that she forgets that her beautiful features are borrowed. Over the years, she's gotten so accustomed to the reactions her appearance gets, has used it so often to manipulate others to her will, that the devil's trap is hardly necessary because it's taken five solid minutes for her to even realize that leaving the vessel is an option.

Her contact sold her out to hunters. She can hardly blame Frederico, he's a demon after all, and that's what they do. She blames herself for this; obviously she's gotten lax with maintaining her connections. If she survives this, she intends to remedy that problem.

The older one with the scowling handsome face guards the door, but judging from his posture, he's also ready to jump to the aid of the younger one with the girlish hair, the one who has eyes as cold as any demon's.

"My friend has a question for you."

"A question I'm only too happy to answer," says Giselle. She's surprised, though, because this should be an exorcism not an inquisition. He's slipped up, letting her know that there is a negotiation to be made. Deal-making is more a part of her than the skin she's worn for centuries. "Though, the sigils are a bit overkill. I'm sure an arrangement for information could be made easily and without the theatrics."

Her interrogator smiles joylessly. "It is overkill, but you don't know why yet." He's feet away from her and he crouches just outside the trap, hands locking together. "I have a talent that you probably haven't heard of before. I can kill you, not just send you back to hell, without any spells or words or weapons. Do you believe me?"

She frowns. She does believe him. She can tell, though, that he is going to demonstrate anyway, whether she believes him or not. "Will it hurt?" she asks.

Again the smile without a trace of happiness. "Not the human you're inside." He raises his hand and she braces herself. No amount of preparation could have lessened the pain she feels. She's being ripped away from the vessel, pulled in different directions, feels herself breaking into pieces, snippets of personality and feeling and thought scattering. She's losing herself and through it all is tremendous searing pain, like burning alive.

When she returns to her host body, the scream she's making hurts her ears. Out of breath and terrified, she whimpers. "Please. Please, I don't like pain."

"We're going to free your vessel tonight, Demon, but it's your choice what happens to you when we do that. Answer truthfully and you'll be exorcised."

Giselle doesn't want to lose the human body, feels like it would be dying too, and then to have to return to hell, that's worse. She loves this world, loves its gullible toadies with their desperation for money and love and power. She's spent so many years building herself an empire here in Vegas. She can't have it stripped away from her.

"I can answer truthfully, but are you sure you want to perform an exorcism on this lady? She's been through so much over the years; I can't promise she'd survive."

"Then she'll die with her soul intact," says the interrogator.

Giselle tries desperately not to glare at the man. She doesn't want to appear angry, wants to appear friendly and helpful. "I understand the sentiment, but do you really want her death on your hands?"

Wrong step. The long-haired teenager laughs. "Everyone is always asking me that!"

The other hunter, the one by the door reacts to the laugh, but she can't identify how. He shifts his feet and brings up his forefinger and thumb to his own lips. It is pivotal for her to figure out what they want. Figure out what someone wants and you have power over them. "And how do you feel about that?" she asks the lookout.

In a second, her atoms are scurrying again, the pain is slicing into her, and she struggles to stay inside her shell, her home. More quickly than the last time, her torturer stops, dropping her back down in her human body.

Again she's crying out as she returns, but it's not clear how since the air in her lungs feels like smoke. "No! Stop!" she cries.

"You don't talk to him. And your time for asking questions is done. You are going to answer now and if I think you're lying or telling any half-truths, I will end your existence completely."

It's embarrassing how her body shakes at the threat. All her careful stoicism gone before this whelp of a human. "Then ask me, because I'll tell you the truth, but I want your word!" His raised eyebrow tells her how infrequently he must hear that from demons. She explains herself. "We demons are all about pacts. If you promise not to kill me, I'll give you whatever dire secret is worth so much to you!"

He shrugs. "I promise." His lackadaisical attitude does not assure her, but nonetheless, he gestures for the other one to ask his question.

The hunter walks towards her. It's awkward, the walk, and at first she thinks it's his bowed legs but then she spies an erection. Only years of training keep her from smiling at the realization. Well, lust is one of the easiest desires to manipulate. She wonders if the desire is for her, the boy, or the torture. She attempts to construct multiple offers for each, though her brain is functioning so much slower after the pain.

"I want to know where I can find the yellow-eyed demon."

There are few things she'd expected to hear as little as that, yet as he says it, it makes perfect sense. Pieces click into places. She looks at the long-haired hunter. "You're one of Azazel's kids."

The frost gaze vanishes, is replaced by pure shock. He looks about fourteen standing there gaping and she would wonder how she could ever be afraid of such a child, but she knows all too well how deceiving looks can be. "What?" he asks.

The man who asked the question looks at his comrade (lover?).

"Azazel's kids, the ones he gives part of himself to. The army that he's growing."

The boy's face is now white and she sees that he didn't know some, maybe all of what she's saying.

"Army?" he stutters out, looks as though someone has just punched him in his reproductive organs. "No."

Giselle gambles. "You should console your Love," she says to the hunter who had asked her the question. "This is very bad news for him."

The man looks back and forth between her and the boy, then seems to see the wisdom of her words, steps towards him to offer comfort.

She allows a small smile. Even at her worst, tortured and afraid, she is still such an excellent judge of human character.

"You okay?" she hears him ask.

"No, but that's not what's important now." The teenager sets a hand on his lover's shoulder, just a tap, a signal that he's still focused on his task. It would be heart-warming to her if she had a heart.

Intent once again, the long-haired hunter steps past his lover, glares at her when he asks, "But you didn't answer his question."

"The last time I saw Azazel was a decade or more ago…" she begins to explain, but he interrupts.

"Not Azazel! The yellow-eyed demon!"

Confused, she shakes her head. "I don't understand."

He pulls at her again, tugs her from the body and she's half in and half out of the human Giselle's mouth. She can't feel the body, can only feel the pain. This time it's like she's slammed back into the vessel when he stops. Tears fall onto her cheeks, onto her chest. "I don't know what you want!" she screams.

"Where is the yellow-eyed demon?" he demands, voice fiery instead of icy.

"I can tell you where he was ten years ago but that's it!"

"Not Azazel!" he yells, jaw jutting out like a raging caveman, and stepping towards her as though to strike.

She trembles. "Azazel is the only demon with yellow eyes that I've ever heard of!"

When seasons change, it's gradual. The leaves change color or grow or fall, taking weeks and months to complete a cycle. The hunter's reaction is perhaps as drastic of a change as the seasons, but it happens in a moment, one blink of the eye, and he's no longer angry, no longer cruel, doesn't show any more signs of confusion. His face is a deep well of pain and his hand grabs at his chest, around his heart. She wonders if he's having a heart attack, sure that he must be but suspicious of the timing.

"Sammy!" calls out the other hunter. He rushes to the boy who either collapses into or is caught by his arms.

"No, no, Chal."

"Chal?" asks the other man. "What's this got to do with Chal?"

The boy, Sam, looks lost, tear-glazed eyes staring into his lover's. "Dean…" he says, reaching up and stroking the scruff of his lover's cheek. "Oh God, Dean."

"What the hell, Sammy? What's going on?" When Sam's silent devastation continues, he begins to shake the boy. "Talk to me, dammit. What's going on?"

"Need to get out of here, Dean. I need… I need to talk to Chal."

Dean nods, wraps Sam's arm over his shoulder, supporting his weight. They move to the door.

Giselle keeps quiet, thinks that maybe her presence will be forgotten. There's no such luck because with only the slightest of look from the tall young hunter, she loses her ability to think, move, remember. There is only pain and blackness.

Sleeping is hard to do alone now that she's gotten accustomed to John in the bed. Chal isn't bitter about his leaving, understands that it's part of his job, but she misses him more acutely than she misses Sam. It's strange to her how little time he has been in her life and yet managed to carve such a large niche for himself in it. Since she's slept so poorly the two days that he's been gone, she's trying to nap. The bed is too large and the light is too bright, even with the blinds down. When the phone rings, she welcomes it; the unsuccessful nap only making her that much more aware of her own exhaustion.

She brightens when she sees that it's Sam.

"Hello?" she asks.

"Chal," a breathy version of Sam's voice says. "Chal, I need you to stop anything else you're doing and listen very carefully."

Immediately, she's alert, eyes looking to her emergency bag. She can be on the road in 120 seconds if he needs her. "I understand."

"Is John Winchester my father?"

There it is, the world exploding. Somehow knowing it was coming doesn't stop it from making her stomach drop nor keep her heart from breaking. "Sam…" she starts, but she doesn't know how to finish. It doesn't matter anyway, because he screams. She pulls the phone from her ear, stares at it in horror. She hears glass breaking, the thump of objects colliding with other objects.

When the sound finally abates, she begins to speak. "I took you from the nursery after Azazel killed your mother, before she burst into flames. I had to. I couldn't let them carry out their plans for you. The angels, they don't care who you are. They just want to use you…"

"And my father?" he asks.

She bites her lip, struggles to keep tears back, presses the cold back of her shaking hand onto her warm face. "He… he saved your brother."

"Dean."

"Dean," she confirms.

He yells again, this time more briefly, before snarling at her. "You made me think they were dead."

"I didn't want you to find them before you were ready. I knew that John was trying to find Azazel. If he found him before you were ready, he would have killed you, all three of you."

"All the Winchesters," he says, voice breaking. She knows he's crying and that's when her own tears break, following his example. "You have ruined everything. You've ruined my life."

"I was doing what I thought was best for your safety," Chal says weakly.

"You were wrong!" he screams. "Sixteen years and I don't even know who I am! You've been lying to me this whole time! And Dean… Oh God. Dean is my brother. My brother, Chal! Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?"

She doesn't, but she keeps quiet, hopes he can get his rage out now so that they can work through this.

"How am I supposed to tell him!? This is going to kill him, Chal! This is killing me! How could you?"

There's another crashing sound and then a long period of silence. She waits, one minute, two, maybe even three, before she says, "I have never regretted my actions, not even now. I have loved you and given everything to protect you and no matter how much anger you feel now, I don't regret it."

Another long stretch of silence, long enough to make her wonder if he's hung up. She looks at the phone, sees the seconds still counting up on the length of the call. When he speaks, it's quiet and angry and sad. "I don't want to see you ever again. Do you hear me? Never."

This may be the moment when Chal finally loses the last of her grace. It seems that any part of her that held hope and power and beauty dies right then. She holds the phone to her ear even after he's hung up, after her arm starts to ache. She clutches it with sweaty palm and covers it with the tears that run down her cheek. This is worse than falling from Heaven.

Dean really hadn't wanted to leave Sam alone, not for a moment, after whatever the fuck had happened during the demon interrogation. One second, Sam had been glorious, sexy and powerful, and then Dean was sure he was gonna faint, face white and eyes bursting with tears. Then there had been the quiet ride back to the hotel where the only words that had Sam had spoken were that he needed to get to the hotel and needed to call Chal. He's never been so worried about anyone in his life, well, maybe he's about as worried as the time that he was sure Dad was gonna bleed to death after a werewolf attack, but that's some serious shit too.

He finally gets back to the Days Inn, carries the bag of burgers and fries that stank up the Impala to their room after checking the room number on the key card envelope. He's way too worried to care about numbers right now. He just hopes that Sam doesn't look any worse than he did, hopes that he's not going to have to call an ambulance or something, hopes that it really is just that the kid needs to eat to replenish lost demon-zapping energy.

he hotel room is demolished. Every bit of furniture or electronic smashed, wood and metal and glass everywhere.

"Sammy!" Dean calls out. In a panic, he tears through the rubble, but there's no sign of anything but destruction. "Sammy!" he yells as loud as he can. Whoever fucked up the room had done so thoroughly. He has to push shit aside just to get to the bathroom. He pushes open the door, medicine cabinet smashed, toilet seat ajar, but, also with a piece of paper atop it. He snatches it up. If it's ransom, he'll pay it. It doesn't matter how much money they want.

In Sam's stupid all-caps handwriting, are the words: Sorry. Don't follow me.

He stares at the note, then at the bathroom. He flips the paper over, hoping there's another message. In a way, there is. The other side of the paper is the cover of Hunters.

Within two minutes, he's back in the Impala revving her engine as he drives like a maniac all the while chanting Sam's name. He searches all night, checks roads for hitchhiker's, asks around at truck stops, finally breaks down and calls Chal, hopes that she's heard from him, but she doesn't answer her phone.

At dawn, he's pulled off to the side of the road near the city limits sign. He puts his head down on the Impala's dashboard and cries big monster tears.

"Where are you, Sammy?"