When Dean came that night, Sam was in his room, at his desk.

He'd moved all the books from the library in here, stacking the ones that wouldn't fit on the small wooden surface on the floor along the wall. He wanted the privacy. He hadn't actually managed any real research for almost an hour, though. Just sat with one hand fisted rigidly in his hair and the other covering his face, the desk lamp the only light in the room.

His scalp had begun to throb ages ago, strands of hair popping free at the roots in bright little snaps he saw inside his eyelids. His fingers were swollen and stinging with interrupted circulation, hair wound too tight.

His left leg hurt. His first cramp in years.

"I felt you." Sam hadn't known Dean was there, but his voice didn't make him jump. "Earlier today, in the morning. Must've been something real bad. What happened?"

"Heard you had another exorcism." Sam's voice came out hoarse, several hours' rust built up in his throat. He coughed. "Heard it got gross, too. You don't eat, so. Where'd all the puke come from?"

"Trust me, you don't wanna know." Dean stepped forward, put a hand half on Sam's back and half on his hunched shoulder. His blunt nails brushed the scar on his neck through his collar. "What happened, Sammy?"

Sam chewed on the inside of his lip for a long time. Until copper washed his mouth. Then, finally, he started, "I don't know how. Green won't tell me anything and I'm afraid to push him too hard. But Heather's dead."

"What?" Dean demanded. "Oh, son of a bitch."

"And she's gone gone. I tried a séance earlier, but - " Sam finally dropped his hands. "Nothing. No residual energy, reaper's left the building, not a trace." He twisted in his seat to look up at Dean. "Dean. Get this: there are no ghosts here at all. After I realized getting a hold of Heather was a bust, I started broadcasting on all channels, looking for anybody who would listen. Completely silent. D-don't you...I mean, don't you think that's weird? When so many people have died here? It couldn't have been peaceful, either."

"I noticed the no-ghost thing." Dean shifted with Sam so he could keep a hand on him. "And yeah, it's weird. They're Catholics, seriously doubt they cremated the bodies." He paused. "What time did it happen? Heather."

"I don't know, why?" Sam squinted up at him.

"I might've felt something. Early this morning." Dean shook his head. "It was real faint, though. Real quick, like, one-and-done speed."

"Well, what was it?" Sam nearly demanded.

"I don't know. Came and went too fast for me to get a good read on it, and like I said, it was faint. I'm still not even a hundred percent sure I felt anything at all," Dean replied. "And since we don't know when Heather died, we don't know it's got anything to do with her."

"Seems like a pretty big fucking coincidence, Dean." Sam pushed himself up out of his chair, walked across the room.

"Sam - "

"Just…" Sam shook his head, and squeezed his eyes shut. But he didn't say anything else for a long time, raising his hands slowly to his head and lacing his fingers together behind it.

He stood like that for a while. Dean didn't say anything, either.

"I should've done something," Sam began eventually, voice quiet.. "I saw how bad she looked. She was in full crisis, she needed a hospital. It was so obvious she was in danger, from the people here even if you totally ignore whatever was giving her black eyes during exorcisms, and I should've called somebody, even if it got us both thrown out. We could've snuck her out. I could've - "

"Sam." Dean was firmer about it this time. Suddenly right in front of him, he put both hands on his shoulders, like Green had earlier. The only difference was that anger didn't burn along Sam's bones at Dean's touch. "Look at me."

He just kept repeating it until Sam finally did, glaring. Dean studied him for a second, golden flecks somewhere deep in his eyes catching the light. Like freckles on his irises. Then he stated, "You're limping."

"No I'm not," Sam automatically snapped back.

"Yeah. You are." Dean cocked his head a couple degrees. "How long since that happened? Huh, big guy?"

Sam maintained the glare for a few more seconds, but finally had to look away. Letting out a breath he'd been trying to hold, he dropped his hands, and quietly admitted, "A while."

"Yeah, I know." Dean lifted a hand from Sam's shoulder, cupped the side of his face and thumbed the point of his cheekbone. "Sammy. Man, this ain't on you."

"It is," Sam mumbled. "I should've helped."

"You think you didn't? You think you weren't trying?" Dean asked incredulously. "Look, I know you're a big, twitchy control freak and it's tough, but you gotta have figured out by now there's some stuff you just can't take responsibility for."

Sam's vision started to blur. He squeezed his eyes shut.

"'Sides. Something like this?" Dean's voice had gone soft. "The people whose fault this actually is. They deserve all the blame, and if you try to shoulder some of it, that's like you letting them off the hook. You wanna do that?"

"No," Sam mumbled.

"Course you don't. C'mere."

Dean pulled him into a tight hug. Warm and firm and so incredibly safe. Sam wrapped Dean in his own arms, buried his face in the curve between shoulder and neck, sucked in his scent. A drowning man getting his first taste of air in hours that wasn't half-water.

Dean was petting his hair, fingers running through the waves and curls. It was doing something soft and warm to Sam's knees, but he made to pull away, head back to the desk.

"Oughta get back to work."

"Uh uh." Voice firm, Dean didn't let him go. "Not tonight. You think I can't feel how you're coming apart? C'mon. You need a break before you wind up snapping right in half."

"What kinda break?" Sam asked skeptically.

"Well, what you need most of all's sleep. But I know you, and that giant brain's not switching off…" Dean swept a hand up the back of Sam's neck, hair coiled and spilling between his fingers, and held him steady so he could kiss him. Long. Slow. Deep. He only pulled back once Sam was coming up on the very end of his oxygen. "Unless I wear you out."

"Seriously?" The words were quiet against Dean's lips.

"Been a long few days, Sam. Tell me we don't both need this."

Sam exhaled. Then he stepped back, Dean's arms loose enough now for him to do it, and reached up to start opening his shirt. Dean stopped him with both hands, though.

"No." Appreciative green eyes flicked up the length of him, then down. "Leave it on."

Sam let out an incredulous little laugh. This was one particular kink he could honestly say he hadn't seen coming. It was wonderful, these little surprises that popped up every now and again. The same feeling as finding a twenty in the pocket of a favorite coat, only intensified.

"Okay." He spread his hands. "How d'you want me, then?"

"Bed." Dean nodded to it then, as Sam was going, crooked a finger and brought his backpack skidding out from underneath it. Down on one knee, Dean started digging through it. "Now, I'm guessing you've got a pair of...ohoho. Looky here." He lifted a pair of handcuffs by one bracelet, swinging them playfully back and forth. "Already taped up and everything. Sammy, you kinky little bastard."

"I put 'em in with my hunting stuff," Sam defended himself. "They're for the case."

"Uh huh. This for the case, too?" Dean pulled a bottle of lube out of the backpack with his other hand, raising an eyebrow.

"I thought we were gonna be staying in a motel!" In fact, the car was still parked near the one they'd intended on checking into. "Don't tell me you didn't bring anything."

"I brought plenty. And I was honest with myself about it, too." Dean stood, approaching the bed. "Wrists up. We're gonna do this just the way you like."

Sam obeyed. Dean cuffed him to the headboard, one wrist and then the other, testing the tightness and the angle. He made a few adjustments, then ran a hand through Sam's hair, almost free of product by now with all the touching. Sam let his eyes fall closed.

"Look at that," Dean murmured. "Already feeling better."

Sam could have rattled off the psychological reasons behind that, but for some reason, whenever he'd done it in the past, Dean didn't seem to find it all that sexy. He opened his eyes as Dean, now naked, climbed onto the bed, straddling him, lube in hand. Blinking his eyes black, Dean smiled down at Sam.

"Well, Father," he announced, flicking the cap open with a thumb, "now I've got you where I want you...what am I gonna do with you?"

If they'd been at home, Sam might have laughed. But here, his cock, already pounding swollen from the cuffs and all the touching, slowly started to rise. Dean squeezed a liberal amount of lube onto his fingers, set the bottle on the nightstand, then reached back and started to work himself open. His eyelids fluttered a little, lips parting. Leaning forward, ass lifting, he put his free hand on Sam's chest. The weight felt kind of good as Sam felt his belt undo itself, his slacks open up, a telekinetic touch wrap around his cock and pull it free.

He was fully hard even before Dean got him all the way out into the air, able to feel precome welling in his slit.

"You guys take a vow of - celibacy, right?" Dean's voice was husky, hitching a little. Sam imagined his fingers nipping over his prostate. "Breaking that vow now. With a demon, too. Can't imagine God'll be super forgiving." He grinned down at Sam. "Am I your first?"

"Might as well be." Sam gasped as the touch on his cock got suddenly, wildly more intense. It circled his shaft teasingly, probed at his head, felt almost like a phantom tongue. Like two or three tongues, lapping up and down him, curling around him, folding coyly over his head.

He pushed his head back into the pillow, groaning and squeezing his eyes shut as his knees bent, legs drawing up. He didn't even realize he was doing it until Dean pushed him back down with more telekinetic contact, gentle but insistent. Dean's hand came off his chest, and Sam opened his eyes in time to see him wrap it around his own cock, jerking himself off in time to what he was doing to Sam.

The muscles in his thighs were straining with the effort of holding him up off Sam, stomach so tight Sam could almost count his abs. The desk lamp made the perfect curve of his lips glow wetly, the symmetry of cheekbones and chin traced out by freckles, black-pearl eyes striking against fair skin.

There were times when it really hit Sam, how Dean looked. How lucky he was that this was his. Right now, it was so strong it burned behind his eyes like grief.

Dean's hair was thick and soft and fell onto his forehead, no gel for days, golden highlights glinting around the crown of his scalp. Sam wanted suddenly to reach up and run his hands through it, but when he moved without thinking, the cuffs stopped him with a clink. The restriction settled a sense of security in his chest...and milked a blurt of precome from his cock.

"Not going anywhere, Father," Dean told him with a grin, wolfish canines on full display. The wet sounds of him loosening himself up made Sam shudder, especially because he knew very well he didn't need that much work. It was all for his benefit.

Sam closed his eyes again, tipping his head back, panting. He felt his body arch slightly, enough to feel Dean's balls on his stomach and thighs around his waist. Because he wasn't looking, he didn't have any warning before Dean dropped onto his cock, bottoming out almost instantly.

Sam's gasp was so sharp it nearly came back out as a cough. He bit his lower lip with a whimper, shaking under Dean, mind going immediately and desperately to the index of things he kept to keep himself from coming. Important verses from holy books. Exorcism rituals. Monsters and what killed them, listed alphabetically and by family, class, subclass.

It'd felt like Dean was about to start moving. Instead, he paused, pulsing around Sam. Then he laughed.

"Fuck, are you ever backed up," he commented. "Don't worry. I'll fix it."

He took a double handful of Sam's shirt, palms and fingers slick and wet with precome and sweat and lube, and that seemed almost ridiculously sinful, ridiculously hot. Holding himself steady, he started moving his hips, movements slow, lazy, rolling. Sam was sweating underneath him, core tightening every time Dean pulled up as he rose automatically to meet him, and enjoying himself so much more than he felt like he should. Having one death under his belt, and not being a whole lot closer to figuring out what was going on in this place than he'd been when he arrived.

"Sam." He opened his eyes when Dean said his name so commandingly. Soon as he did, Dean pointed at himself, not breaking rhythm. "Look at me. Focus on me, okay? On us. Nothing else."

Dean leaned down to kiss him. He slid up his cock as he did so, agonizingly slow, popping free of the head just as their lips touched, and Sam gasped into the kiss as pleasure burned a searing path through his thoughts.

"You deserve to relax," Dean murmured against Sam's mouth. "You need to. Tell me you understand that."

He waited until Sam nodded to straighten back up, get back on his cock. Sam let out a little cry that trailed off into a moan.

There were loopholes, he'd figured out over the years. Even if he didn't believe he'd earned this, he definitely believed Dean had. Dean deserved it. Dean needed it. Denying himself meant depriving Dean, and Sam wanted so badly to care more about loving Dean than he did punishing himself.

Dean pulled the white insert out of Sam's collar as he started to pick up speed, opened it up. Hand under Sam's upper back, he pulled him up to kiss at his throat, mouth at the scar on his neck, and Sam bucked up into him. Dean was unshakeable, solid, could take whatever he gave him. He was more worried about the bed, creaking up a storm underneath them, frame tapping over and over again against the wall.

Hopefully the shrieking wind outside would keep anybody from hearing. They weren't being anywhere near as loud as they could be.

"That feel good, Father?" Dean teased against Sam's collarbone. "You can't help yourself, can you?"

"No," Sam agreed breathlessly, because it was true. Dean laughed.

Dean alternated between having both hands on Sam's chest, holding on, and jerking himself off as he got steadily faster, rougher, built to a very familiar rhythm. Sam looked up at him, air rolling hard and fast in and out of his lungs, Dean making and holding bright eye contact. Heat settled low in Sam's stomach, his balls started to tighten, and he braced himself, but then he felt something weird at the base of his cock.

It didn't feel bad. Just a tight band of sensation, blocking him off, keeping him from coming. He blinked up at Dean, who shook his head.

"Not yet," he rasped. "Not anywhere close to being through with you yet."

Dean steadily worked Sam up. Sam felt it growing in him, his climax, thudding bigger with every motion of Dean's hips. He had to close his eyes.

"What would God think?" Dean's voice was a mocking little purr. "A demon fucking you in...this probably counts as a rectory, right? He's gotta be watching us right now." A sudden clatter. Sam's pleasure-scattered brain teased out the crucifix on the wall must have fallen. "Oh, look at that. Guess He couldn't bear to look."

Blasphemy wasn't typically a kink of Sam's. But right now, on the torturous, shuddering lip of a mindblowing orgasm? Literally everything was hot.

His knees came up again. Dean shoved them back down. "Nah, you're staying put." Telekinetic bonds, like soft, smooth handcuffs, snapped suddenly tight around his ankles.

Sam let out a long, keening whine, only realizing he was doing it somewhere around the middle. Rough, blunt fingers brushed sweaty hair out of his face.

"God ever done this for you, Father?" Dean whispered.

Sam felt the pressure around the base of his cock suddenly loosening. He found himself shaking his head back and forth on the pillow.

"No," he gasped, eyes popping open. "Not yet."

Dean looked surprised, then grinned. "I think you've waited long enough, but if that's really what you want…" He twisted his hips. "I can hold out a little longer."

Sam could feel it, in the space between cock and balls and stomach and ass. A pounding knot, boiling with heat, drawing tighter and tighter under Dean's care. Dean's movements just kept getting faster where he was practically bouncing on top of Sam's cock. Sam looked at his thighs, creamy and freckle-dusted, then up at his face, a grin that was nearly a snarl. His eyes had switched back from black, but they were dark and practically bottomless with lust.

Sam didn't even know he'd given Dean a little nod until he felt Dean let go.

Everything poured out of him in a bright, prickling rush. His face was numb, his eyes tearing, lightning in his stomach and skull. Dean shoved something into his mouth and Sam bit into it before he knew what it was, not aware of texture or taste, just desperate to keep himself from screaming. A slight noise made it out anyway.

Dean's eyes shifted above him, and his mouth opened slightly. Sam felt him come from the inside and the outside, tightening around his cock, spilling hot seed all over his shirt.

Sam was starting to come down, feeling hazy and warm and completely used up, when Dean pried his locked jaw open. Realizing he tasted blood and the barest feather of sulfur, it hit him he'd had Dean's hand in his mouth a split second before he saw the streaming bite wound just below the pinky.

"Sorry," Sam said, voice crawling throatily out of him.

"Don't be." Dean shook his head, grinning. The blood had already stopped. Sam thought for a second his eyes were still black, then saw his pupils were just blown wide. "It's all good."

Sam watched Dean's hand knit itself back together, skin crawling in threads to cover the red and pink flesh that welled up to fill the puncture wounds. He couldn't even bring himself to make a face, staring up at Dean. In fact, if he'd had to guess his default expression at the moment, he probably would have gone with "worshipful."

Dean climbed slowly off him. Sam had mostly wilted free of his hole, but Dean had to tug his ring clear of his head with a slight groan. Reaching for the box of tissues on the nightstand, he pulled out a wad, holding them in his hand like a white peony as he wiped their come off Sam's shirt and pants and cock. A little haphazardly, but Sam wasn't going to complain about the fact he was doing it at all. Especially considering he tucked him back into his slacks and everything.

After giving himself more or less the same treatment, Dean held a hand out towards Sam's cuffs. Before the mechanisms could click free, Sam shook his head again.

"Leave 'em," he panted.

One of Dean's eyebrows arched, but he was grinning. Climbing back onto the bed, he all but draped himself over Sam, mostly on and partly off. Even as Sam closed his eyes against the sheer bliss of contact now riding along on his afterglow, he asked, "Don't you need to get going?"

"There's a schedule," Dean replied. "For the nightly checks. I got time." Very seriously, he told Sam, "Cuffs are coming off for at least part of that, though. 'Cause I know you and I know you need more than this."

Sam was fluent in Dean, even minutes out from mindblowing sex. You know me and you know I want to cuddle, but getting me to ask for it's like pulling teeth. Actually, worse, 'cause I might actually be used to and okay with the teeth pulling.

"Which spoon d'you want?" Sam asked.

"Given it some thought," Dean replied. "Not fair you always get to be the little one when you're the bigger outta the two of us."

It was peaceful, warm, comforting. The light was soft, the sound of even more bad weather drumming and howling outside somehow made cozy but Dean's presence. Sam felt like he was the consistency of cheesecake, that soft, airy kind they'd had once, on their anniversary. When Dean took him to Tokyo. And here, with him, contained and secluded, it felt like home.

Home shattered when the knock on the door came.

Sam froze, responding almost more to Dean tensing up than the sound itself, which he hadn't yet fully processed.

"Father Unterweger?" Presley's voice, concerned, maybe even a little angry. He paused. "Sam. Everything okay in there?"

Sam cleared his throat. Had to answer. Had to sound normal. "I-I - "

The knob turned, even though Sam had absolutely locked it, did it on instinct every time he entered the room. The door started to open.

Dean pushed himself up and twisted, coiling in a blink, one hand held up with his fingers in claws and his body still laid protectively over Sam's. His eyes were black before Presley probably ever even saw him. Sam jerked his own head up hard enough to hurt his neck, saw Presley framed in the doorway, perfectly still with his hand on the doorknob, eyes so wide it looked like they were about to fall out of the sockets and roll away along the floor. Going off his expression, that happening would have shocked him less than what he was looking at.

For a very, very long time, what felt like practically an eternity to Sam, nobody moved, and nobody spoke. There was no sound at all but thunder and rain and wind. Presley broke the silence.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he said distantly, then stumbled backwards as Dean moved aggressively towards him. He hit the wall behind him, scrambled up off it, and took off down the hall at a rapid, shaky stumble before Dean could even reach the doorway. "H-help! Need some help over here, there's a - !"

"Dean!" Sam hissed out. He'd grabbed the doorframe, swung himself halfway out around it like he was going to take off after Presley, but at his name, stopped and pulled back into the room. "You need to go. Back to your room, right now."

Dean looked at him like he'd just suggested a holy water enema. "I'm not gonna - "

"Now!" Sam snapped at him. Doors were opening, loud voices, footsteps coming fast down the hall. Dean's head whipped towards the doorway, then back to Sam, face twisted. The fingers of one hand twitched and the bracelets of the cuffs ratcheted out to their largest size. Then he swept forward, scooped his scrubs off the floor, and vanished. Sam was again the only one in the room, besides the plant.

He wasn't alone for long, though.

Father Green's office looked different at night.

It was probably something to do with the lighting. Harsh, artificially-yellow bulbs, supplemented by the sun in the daytime, now doing all the work. The buzz of them audible even over the storm. And there was something so primally threatening about the flat black of the window, shades open, even the raindrops bursting against the glass hardly visible.

Sam sat with his shoulders rounded and his hair hanging in his face in front of the desk. He wasn't looking at Green, unfocused gaze resting somewhere around the nameplate, but he could sure as hell feel Green's eyes on him. And hear his breathing. And count the ticking of a clock he'd never noticed before now.

Almost five minutes since he'd been shown in, and neither of them said a word.

"Are you hurt?" Green asked eventually, tone very careful.

"Uh, no." Sam somehow didn't think he wanted to hear about the raw and wild worry currently ripping a path through his insides.

What were they going to do to Dean for this? Shit, why had he told him to go back to his room? He should have had him get out of here, just hunker down at Bobby's and let Sam take care of things.

Except that Dean probably wouldn't have gone, would he? Because what Sam should have done was not have loud and enthusiastic sex in an occupied building with walls roughly the width of a very abridged bible.

"Thank the Lord for that, at least." Another long pause, although not quite as long as the first. Green sucked in a loud breath through his nose. "Father Presley described the scene to me. It sounds as if your position was...compromising."

"Not, uh, not that - "

"Why didn't you call for help, as soon as it appeared?" Green wondered out loud. "More than a dozen people, at least, were within earshot."

"I was afraid?" Sam tried to explain, cringing internally at how uncertain it came out sounding.

"I understand you were bound," Green told him. "Handcuffed. I don't know where it got something like that, we don't have metal cuffs here. Were you asleep, when it arrived? Did it - "

"No! No. He didn't..." It occurred to Sam a breath too late that maybe he should be more concerned with keeping his cover intact than making sure everybody knew the sex was consensual.

And now his leg hurt again. Awesome.

"Demons are," Green began a little awkwardly, "masters of temptation."

"Th-that's not. Uh." It was so ironic Sam would've been struggling not to laugh, if things had been just a little different.

"It's extremely obvious why this particular one is targeting you," Green went on. "The two of you have been locked in a battle of wills over Dean Kemper's soul for so long...it's infuriated, and you're exhausted. I know how you're feeling, Sam. I'm familiar with." He paused. "Such temptations myself."

Sam looked up.

"I know from experience the machinations of Satan are clever," Green continued firmly. "Difficult to resist. The Adversary and the forces of evil are powerful, and it can feel like you're helpless, especially against a demon. But I know we both know the Lord is stronger, and He will help you resist, if it's still your earnest desire to walk with Him. That's the beauty of it: you can still be saved even after feeling these temptations. All of us can. Even after engaging in...these activities. So long as you have the Lord in your heart, and you've opened yourself to the assistance of the Divine, and the church."

Dean had been lighter, all hundred and eighty-odd pounds of him, laying on top of Sam than the silence felt right now.

"Can I ask when your last confession was?" Green folded his hands on the desk in front of him.

Sam thought about abandoned churches, blood in his lungs, wings and light and black and white eyes. "Before I came here."

Green nodded. "I suggest you go as quickly as possible. Tomorrow morning, after Lauds, would be best, and I'd be honored to be your confessor. Frankly, any of us would. Allow me to make it clear to you, Sam. Here, you are surrounded by nothing but those who want to help." Something almost like a smile twitched briefly across his face. "Discounting the demons, of course."

"Of course," Sam echoed.

Green seemed to be waiting expectantly for him to say more. When it became obvious Sam didn't plan on it, he cleared his throat and nodded again. Swiveling away from Sam, he stood up. His body blocked most of what he was doing, but Sam saw him lift away the El Greco print, then a panel of the wall itself, very carefully painted and installed.

There was a safe behind it. Craning his neck as Green spun the dial and swung the door open, Sam only snagged a glimpse of a thick stack of manila folders before Green turned back around, a book in one hand, and he had to hastily straighten.

"This - " Green started, then paused. "That's...a distinctive mark."

Sam's hand rose to his neck. With his high collar laying open, the symbol sliced years ago into the meat of him was visible to anybody above him. He covered it.

"It's just a scar."

"I can see that." Green sank back into his chair. "How did you get it?"

"It was a demon." Dropping his hand, Sam began to close his collar.

"Dantalion?"

"No."

Sam looked at Green, holding his eyes. He might not have been awesome at lying when he was caught out, all but choked by shame and fear. It was something that probably ran all the way back to high school, if he'd cared enough to dig. But for this, he had the stability of the truth to rest on.

Green apparently either believed him or chose not to press the subject, because instead of asking any more questions, he passed the book he was holding across the desk. Sam looked down at it. It was battered, outside edges of the pages a velvety yellow with age. It had the look of one of those eighties teenage self-help books he'd seen scattered across the classrooms and libraries and regional social service centers of his childhood. Sins of the Flesh: How to forget him and find Him, the title read in pink letters.

Sam wasn't sure what contributed more to the gag reflex he had to wrestle down. The obvious propaganda, or the appalling capitalization.

"This is the book I used to recommend to young men back in my home parish," Green explained as Sam stared. "I would give them a copy, and if they or their parents wanted it, we would talk through it together. This is my personal copy, in fact, complete with notes, so I'm going to have to ask you to take good care of it. Although I know you will, I've seen how you appreciate books."

He nudged it a little closer. With the same caution he would have used laying his hand on a hot plate, Sam took it.

"It's a bit juvenile," Green warned him. "But I think it's a very helpful jumping-off point. Welcoming, when you're not sure where else to turn."

Sam almost wished he could get mad. Stand up, throw the book back in Green's face, demand to be taken to Dean right now so he could make sure he was okay. But embarrassment and exhaustion were weighing him down like a pair of cement shoes, and maybe that was a good thing. A blowout wouldn't get them any closer to shutting this place down or saving lives. So all he tiredly said was, "Thank you."

"Let me know when you're finished with that." Green nodded to the book. "And if you'd like any other literature. I have a long list of suggestions, many of which have helped me personally."

"Uh huh," Sam agreed then, book in hand, started to push himself up. "Thanks. I, uh, really appreciate it." He waved the book, smiled tightly. "It's getting pretty late though, so I think I'm gonna head back to my room. If that's okay with you."

"Of course, of course." Green gestured for him to go. "I'd suggest taking a shower before you get in bed, though. It will help, trust me."

Sam didn't really see the need to respond to that. Going for the door, he swallowed a groan when Green started speaking again. So close, he'd had his hand on the knob and everything.

"Even outside of confession, you can come to me whenever you want to talk." Green spread his hands, smiling kindly. "And if I can, Sam...I'd like to tell you how glad I am you're here with us. I shudder to think what might have happened if you hadn't come to the Center when you did. If you were still alone."

"Yeah. Good timing." Sam escaped before Green could catch him again.

He took the shower suggestion, but felt a hell of a lot more like he had to wash off the conversation with Green than he did what had happened between him and Dean. Never mind one had left him sweaty and come-coated and the other hadn't. He practically speed-walked from the showers back to his room, not wanting to run into anybody, and he very nearly made it. Was halfway into the doorway when he heard Presley call his name.

He very seriously considered pretending that he hadn't heard him and just slamming the door. Presley was the second-to-last person he wanted to see just then. But there was no guarantee Presley wouldn't open it up again and come on in, so Sam reluctantly looked at him.

"Are you okay?" Presley was out of clerical dress, in plaid pajama pants and a faded T-shirt. Arms folded across his chest, he peered worriedly at Sam. "I kept hearing something, I thought you might be...thought you might be in trouble. Guess you were."

"Yeah." Sam was rapidly running out of tight smiles for these people. "I'm fine. Thanks." He was about to go into his room, but when something caught in his memory, he stopped and turned back to Presley. "Hey, how'd you...I could've sworn I locked the door."

"Oh, yeah." Presley glanced at it. "They don't lock from the inside."

His eyes flicked to Sam, and he looked at him for a long couple seconds. Then he turned around, heading back to his own room with a slight, awkward wave.

"Well. Have a good night. Yell if you need anything."

Sam watched him go. Stepping into his room once Presley was out of sight, he flicked the lock with the door still open. Same faint click as before. Then he turned the knob from the outside. It spun smoothly, no resistance whatsoever.

"Son of a bitch," Sam whispered to himself, and could only wonder how he hadn't noticed that before.

He fingered the keyhole on the outside for a moment, then closed the door, grabbed the chair from the desk, and jammed it under the knob. He made sure the back legs had bit firmly into the carpet tiles before heading for the bed.

He hadn't planned on sleeping. What he'd done with Dean earlier counted as rest. But he'd have to wait a few hours anyway before he left his room, at least. And he was feeling fuzzy and frayed, corners of his vision splintering in a migraine kaleidoscope that didn't seem conducive to anything he had in mind. He also knew Dean would have been pissed knowing Sam spent time he could have been recharging his batteries sitting up and giving himself an ulcer before he came and got him. So he set an alarm on his phone (and responded to the pictures Vaughn had sent of Castiel watching the ocean with Bobby's dogs), and laid down.

Sam had been expecting to have to force himself into sleep. Instead, he didn't even remember pulling the covers up before his phone was suddenly buzzing under his pillow.

Disoriented and shaky, he clawed it out, raised and lowered the volume a few times by accident before finally managing to turn it off. There's no way, he thought until he actually checked the time. Then he set it on the nightstand, rolled out of bed, and reached for his backpack.

No more rain, but a hard freeze had set in. He left the dorm in a coat, hat, and gloves, half because he needed the layers and half to keep Dean from bitching. The air crisped the inside of his nose instantly dry, stars a distant spray of light in the clear sky overhead, and he was careful to keep only to the sidewalks, not wanting to leave footprints in the ice on the grass.

They probably didn't have to worry about slugs in the lettuce anymore. Or the lettuce itself.

Sam gingerly eased open the door of Dean's building, just in case there was anyone besides patients around to hear. Dean had said there was a schedule, but hadn't shared with him what it was. Sam could have sworn he smelled something burning, but it was faint, and with his nose still numb from the cold, he had to let it go.

Sam started down the hallway, heading straight for Dean's room, but froze when he rounded a corner and saw a light. A priest Sam hadn't been introduced to, sitting guard in a chair right outside Dean's door, holy water, crucifix, and bible in a neat little pile on the floor next to him.

He hadn't seen Sam, hadn't looked up, was reading by flashlight and seemed pretty engrossed by whatever it was. At this distance, Sam could just barely make out the illustration serving as a chapter header, and he felt his brows pinch together. He knew Harry Potter when he saw it, but couldn't imagine that was exactly on the Center's recommended reading list.

He was going to have to leave, go out to Dean's window. But as he stepped back around the corner, the priest's flashlight swung up, book snapping hastily shut.

"Hello?" he called out. "Anybody there?" After a second, playfully, "Sister Mary Celeste…?"

Sam put a hand on the nearest door. It wasn't latched in the frame, so it swung soundlessly open at his touch. He stepped inside, nudged it back into its previous position, and crouched near it, out of sight of its narrow window, as he heard the priest walk down the hall and then slowly back. He waited for the distant creak of him settling back into a chair to let out the breath that unknotted his shoulders.

Sam stood, looking around the room he'd ducked into. It was empty, mattress stripped completely bare and restraints draped neatly over the rails, innocuous as scarves. In his rush to find a hiding place, it hadn't even occurred to him that it had been Heather's.

Walking to the bed, he wrapped a hand around one of the rails. It was icy cold as he squeezed hard enough to make his knuckles shift like they were about to splinter, then carefully relaxed. How had she died? A seizure, a brain hemorrhage? An infection in one of the wounds on her wrists? Starvation, dehydration, exhaustion?

How many of those possibilities could Sam have personally prevented?

He reluctantly let go of the rail, went to the window. He had some trouble getting it open, enough he stopped with a pounding heart at the sound it made when it finally came unstuck, but Dean's guard didn't notice. He didn't come running, at least. Sam climbed out, arms above his head to get his shoulders through.

No avoiding the grass here. After closing the window, he kept as close to the wall of the building as he could manage to minimize the tracks he left. The clenched, brittle leaves of the ivy plucked at his hands, his hair, his clothes where it was dying on the brick. Shapes and spaces and directions weren't exactly in Sam's wheelhouse, but it was easy enough to skip one window between Heather's and Dean's, then look into the next one.

It was darker indoors than out, so Sam had to press his face to the numbing glass and shield his eyes with both hands after brushing the pine-tree patterns of the frost clear. His heart gave a painfully excited thud when he saw Dean in the bed, strapped tightly in.

He'd been terrified they'd moved him, were doing something to him somewhere. Not that Sam knew why they would have been guarding an empty room, or why he'd be afraid Dean wouldn't just teleport back to him at the nearest opportunity, or why he thought an overzealous civilian cult would be able to do anything besides surface damage to the last Knight of Hell. All he cared about was his relief.

He couldn't see Dean's face from this angle, but he knew those feet, those crushed and callused knuckles, the shape of the hips and chest and cock and pecs under the scrubs. Dean's body was traced so centrally into Sam's memory at this point he probably would have been able to use it as an anchor point if he were a ghost, even if all his bones and hair and belongings were nothing but ash. He saw one of Dean's hands lift at an angle from the cuff, give him a little wave.

"You okay?" Sam whispered against the window, fogging his view and knowing Dean would be able to hear him. When the mist of his breath cleared, he saw a thumb's up, then Dean turned his hand in a questioning "what about…?" gesture. "Yeah, I'm fine, just got a...super awkward lecture. And a book I probably...need to burn later. But it was worth it, I saw something. C'mon, let's go."

He stepped back expectantly from the window. When Dean didn't appear after a couple seconds, he had to return, where he saw him firmly waggling a thumb's down.

"What's the matter?"

Dean tugged at the cuff.

"Just teleport out, they're - " He cut Sam off with another thumb's down. "Why can't you teleport?"

Dean spread his hand wide, then flicked his ring finger, choppy and obvious. Sam stared, then shook his head, frustration nudging in at about the same rate his breath was freezing on the window. The cold wasn't helping.

"What?" More flicking. "Dean, what the hell does that even mean?"

Dean suddenly made a frantic, viciously-fast "get down" gesture. Sam dropped, taking ivy fragments with him in a cascade of crunching, and heard the muffled sound of Dean's door opening then, just as he was starting to seriously consider crab-walking to the side so he could stand up, closing again. Sam straightened cautiously.

Get out of here, Dean was gesturing now, motion rough enough it would have hurt Sam's wrist.

"I'm not leaving without you," Sam whispered fiercely. Thumb's down. "Look, I need you for this." Thumb's down, and then Dean threw a pair of devil horns. Sam set his jaw, annoyed. "Yeah, thanks, but I'd do more awesome with you."

Another equally-insistent "leave" sign made Sam huff out a sigh. "Fine. You sure you're okay?" At a thumb's up, he closed his eyes for a long second, then opened them. "I'll be back later. I love you."

Dean made a fist, squeezed like he was holding onto something. It wasn't anything Sam had ever seen him do before, but he knew what he meant. He squeezed his own fist, not sure if Dean even knew he was doing it, then left, creeping back around the building to the sidewalk.

The door to Father Green's office had a surprisingly nice lock installed on it, but it was no match for Sam, whose sixth birthday present had been a set of picks. He closed the blinds, still open, then switched on his flashlight. He lifted the painting off the wall, pulled the panel clear, being as quiet as possible even though he was pretty sure the building was empty.

The safe took a while. Just because he theoretically knew how to crack one didn't mean he did it all the time, and this was a high-end model. He spent almost an hour with his ear pressed to it, a piece of paper between him and the metal, a years-old piece of advice from Rufus. He doubted anyone would be dusting for prints in here, but couldn't be too careful. When it finally clicked, he strangled the whoop he wanted to make, but let out a small noise of satisfaction anyway.

If only Dean had been here to see him. Never mind the fact that, if Dean had been here, it wouldn't have even been necessary.

Sam's jaw and his throat tightened. He swallowed, then switched his flashlight on and looked into the safe.

There was money, stacked neatly in the back. That wasn't all that weird. The Center's treatment came at a premium for patients who weren't brought in personally by priests, some people probably paid in cash, Green would rarely get into town to deposit it. A little stranger were the artifacts and books, likely worth more than all the bills combined, but those were probably like the entire contents of the library: stolen by the staff. Legal documents, a ledger, keys, a leatherbound volume Sam could tell was Green's personal journal and that he had to physically stop himself from flipping through...because his interest was in the large stack of manila folders sitting right in front.

He lifted them out, set them on Green's desk, then aimed his light at the tab on the very first one. Heather Estes 11-29-13 - 3-17-14.

"Jackpot," Sam whispered, then felt a flicker of guilt.

He opened the file. Most of it he'd already read, so he just skimmed, in case they'd put in anything new. He mostly just wanted the end. The cause of death, the circumstances, any observations of the corpse. Assuming, of course, they'd actually -

Sam's train of thought rattled to an abrupt and horrifying stop.

He stared for what was probably too long, not realizing how hard he was breathing until he started getting dizzy, not realizing how hard he was clenching his jaw until pain spiked nauseatingly through his molars. He took it in immediately, what was written in Heather's file. Just needed the time to get himself under control. To put together everything he hadn't before.

The wind began to blow outside, in the rhythm of human laughter, but laughter imitated by a shrieking flute. Sam thought, for a second, he smelled burning, but then it was gone, so probably just the fruiting paranoia sunk deep into him at this point.

Sam practically snatched the next file. He recognized the name on its tab, had seen it in a news story and an obituary. He fanned through it, spotting the difficult symptoms, the lack of response to exorcism rituals, the declining physical health, until he got to the end. Then he grabbed the next file. And the next.

It occurred to him at some point to start taking pictures with his phone, of everything. They wouldn't exactly be great quality, but they were better than nothing. Send them to Bobby, and to Ash, Vaughn could help enhance them if that was a thing that was actually possible and then they could be backed up onto a secure server, he knew Ash had plenty. With how bad his reception was out here, he could only send one at a time, each one so slowly.

He should have started with the shots of the documents at the ends of the files, but Sam didn't realize that until he was fifteen minutes into his third transmission, beaming to Maine with all the speed and urgency of a migrating glacier. Maybe he should have gotten more sleep.

He was working on the files, on the other things inside the safe, and on his stupid fucking phone until sunrise. With the blinds closed tightly, he didn't notice the light of dawn until he heard slamming doors and people's voices.

Sam nearly tripped, rushing in the jittery clarity of an adrenaline spill to get everything back into the safe as he'd found it. He should have taken a picture, wasn't sure it looked exactly the same as when he'd opened it, but hopefully Green didn't have a system and didn't have it memorized and didn't open the safe all that often and didn't realize someone had been in his shit. Panel back in place, painting over it, he went around the desk with his eyes on the door, then stopped. When he pulled open Green's desk drawer, Dean's amulet glowed dully up at him, resting on the coils of its leather cord. He grabbed it and shoved it back into his pocket.

His hands were trembling as he picked the door locked again. Anxiety burning in his muscles made him desperate to just leave it, but he knew he couldn't. He could have cried when the tumblers finally fell back into place. Pulling off his hat and gloves and stashing them in the pockets of his jacket, Sam headed down the hall, breathing as easily as he could to try and bring all his systems back to baseline.

He didn't make it far before running into Green.