AN: Once again BookwormBaby2580 fixed my commas and improved my noun/pronoun mess. She also agreed that I should leave all the sex in.

Guys, there is A LOT sex in this chapter. Like. So much sex. Sorrynotsorry?

Thanks for reading this far! Two more chapters after this one.

Blah blah blah belongs to Eric Kripke blah blah.

Chapter 4 - A Heartless Lullaby

"How, like always, he invents the monsters underneath the bed to get you to sleep next to him, chest to chest or chest to back, the covers drawn around you in an act of faith against the night."

Richard Siken

And that was how it went. For weeks. Months. Sam didn't even know—or care—anymore. A pattern had been established, an addiction had taken hold.

Sam didn't call Dean again. He didn't have to. It was as if his admitting that he needed whatever piece of his brother he could get, whatever piece he could hold on to, had given Dean the green light. Dean never tried phoning again, never left him voice messages. But he did text. No more photos. Mainly just times and places, occasionally instructions.

A few days after Sam had let Dean use him on the hood of the Impala, Dean had sent him coordinates with an imperative "NOW." All caps, nothing else.

Sam had thought about ignoring it for only a second. He knew he was kidding himself. He was going to go back, would go back again and again as long as Dean was offering. When he stopped offering? Well, Sam thought he had an idea about what he would do then, but he tried not to dwell on that scenario.

Not that his current situation was anything near the vicinity of good. It was like being trapped in a nightmare, but unable to wake himself up. He didn't want to feel like this, didn't want to need Dean so badly, didn't want the only thing left of his brother to be a demon. Sam would've done anything to get Dean back, anything. Even worse things than what he was currently doing. He'd thought about trying to get the real Dean back, but he didn't know if there was anything of the real Dean left. What if he just destroyed the shell and there was nothing else? He had thought about the demon cure, but Dean's body still had the Mark of Cain branded on to it. Sam had no idea if there was even a possibility of the cure working on a person who wasn't possessed but had become their own demon, with the Mark of Cain to boot. Sam didn't think he had enough confessions in him to purify his blood to the degree that would be needed to have an effect on the evil that now encompassed his brother. He would have to subdue Dean first, a man who now had the extra strength and speed of a creature from Hell. And Sam was so goddamn tired and weak. He felt like it was all he could do to leave his bed in the mornings. And of course, to meet up with the reason for his current state of despair.

Cas had watched Sam leave much like last time, Sam lifting the phone as he walked past saying, "got a lead. See you later." He couldn't think about Cas right now. Maybe tomorrow. He had told Cas that he would try, and bless the man, Cas was giving him time to do just that. Just another thing to make Sam feel like he was the most awful person on the face of the planet. How could he ever tell Cas any of this? Sam was beginning to think that he would rather die.

The coordinates Dean had sent led Sam to a dive bar on the outskirts of Osborne. It was only about twenty minutes from the Bunker. Dean must have made sure that he was within easy driving distance of Sam, and Sam did not know what to make of that.

As Sam pulled into the gravel parking area, he saw a few long-haulers parked a ways away in an area obviously meant for the oversized vehicles. So the bar would be full of irritable truckers, probably drunk, probably just looking to pick a fight. Dean had more than likely picked this place on purpose, an extra element of danger.

Great.

Well, Sam was in it now. No turning back. So he climbed out of the car and headed almost reluctantly towards the door, giving the Impala's roof an affectionate pat as he passed her. She was dirtier than ever and Sam wiped his hand off on his jeans.

He stepped slowly through the door, squinting through the haze of smoke and dim light, trying to get a fix on the layout (old habit) and catch a glimpse of Dean. Sam saw him almost immediately, leaning over an old pool table, working the same old hustle that he always had. Dean made a shot that seemed to end the game, if the amount of groaning and cussing that came from the small group of burly men standing around the table was anything to go by. As Dean stood up he saw Sam, and that glint came into his eyes. He grinned at Sam, tossed his stick onto the table with a "Sorry guys, my date is here. Time to pay up." The men were obviously not happy about any part of what Dean had said, but they handed over a pile of notes, made some snide remarks, and shuffled back to their grimy tables, obviously intent on keeping an eye on Dean and his "date."

Fantastic.

"You want a beer?" Dean asked as he walked up to Sam. He was waving the banknotes in his hand, as if him paying for Sam's drink would be some grand gesture.

Sam shrugged. "Sure. And a shot of tequila."

Dean's grin got bigger, and he turned to give the order to the barman—who gave both of them a very suspicious look but got their drinks.

"Nice place. Seems like you made some friends," Sam commented while looking around, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"It was nearby," Dean said, like that explained everything.

Sam turned to look at Dean, hoped that Dean would see contempt in his eyes. Pretty sure all he saw was need. "You planning on getting assaulted, tonight?

Dean hummed. "Not by any of them." He jerked his head back to indicate the Neanderthals who were still watching them.

The guy behind the bar brought them their drinks, and Sam slammed his tequila down, earning an approving look from Dean. Fuck him, he thought, as he grabbed the bottle of beer and turned around on his stool, leaning back on the bar. This gave him a good view of the door and the bruisers in the corner. He reckoned he could take the barman no problem, but he needed to be able to see what was going on in the rest of the bar. Not watching Dean, Sam took a long drink of his beer and didn't say another word.

After a few moments, Dean turned around as well, and Sam felt a flash of that old feeling; him and Dean, shoulder to shoulder, about to face down some threat. He shrugged that off, as Dean lifted his bottle in the direction of the truckers, toasting them. He was grinning at them as if he was their greatest pal, but Sam heard him mutter under his breath, "cocksuckers. I dare you."

Sam had to admit that he felt a little better hearing that. Dean was up for a fight, which was not a surprise but which also meant that Sam would not be left to defend himself alone, should it come to that.

Fortunately, a busload of college soccer players burst into the place shortly afterward, obviously still on a high from winning some game. Sam couldn't believe that any coach in his right mind could think this was an okay kind of place to bring kids. Okay, young adults. But none of them seemed to notice what a crappy place it was and they all crowded around the bar laughing, loudly asking for sodas and fries (which apparently the place served, but Sam wouldn't have eaten anything to come out of a kitchen belonging to this place) some trying their luck and asking for beers and getting a stink eye from the barman. Sam was sure the guy didn't care about the drinking age, but he was carefully not looking at the two coaches who were now standing on either end of the bar, keeping authoritative eyes over the proceedings. He probably would rather not be reported. More than likely had a record.

The kids had kept crowding against the bar, pushing and shoving and laughing and Sam saw Dean duck under all the arms and through all the legs. And followed him. Dean was walking to the back, in the direction of the bathrooms, but when Sam got to the men's room door, he saw the door at the end of the hall slowly closing. Sam took a quick look into the bar, to see if anyone had noticed, if anyone was still watching, but the kids had crowded the place completely and covered Sam and Dean's exit. Lucky.

So Sam continued walking, opening the back door and stepping into the open air of the warm summer evening. And was slammed back against the wall, pushed right up against it. He could feel the rough brick through his shirt, but Dean was sucking at his neck and squeezing him through his jeans, so he couldn't really care about his clothes or skin scraping against bricks.

"Can't wait. Just wanna..." Dean was panting into Sam's skin, licking and sucking at his neck, and chin, pulling his shirt to the side so that he could bite at Sam's shoulder. And he was rubbing up against Sam, pushing their groins together so hard it almost hurt, but Sam had been hard the moment Dean had grabbed at him, and the feeling of Dean up against him was delicious.

"Hang on. Hang on," Sam mumbled as he worked his hands between their bodies.

Dean didn't seem at all inclined to wait, but Sam finally got his hands on Dean's waistband and managed to undo his button and zipper. The sigh that came from Dean as he was released was filled with need. Sam worked at his own jeans until their naked cocks were rubbing up against each other. Not enough precome to make it totally comfortable, but neither of them really seemed to mind. The catch of dry skin on dry skin just made the occasional slide against a slick patch that much more pleasurable. Their hands were too busy pulling at one another—hair, skin, clothes—to be of much help, but eventually Sam needed more than the rough thrusting of his brother's body against his. Sam grabbed the hand that was pulling at his hair and pulled it down to where their hard flesh was meeting. Sam wrapped their hands around their cocks, his hand covering Dean's slightly smaller one, and linking their fingers, started up a rhythm.

"Fuck yes," Dean groaned and squeezed his hand tighter around their lengths. The pressure on his dick, pressed up against his brother's, made Sam see stars. He came first, the feeling of the warm liquid coating both of them so decadent. The added lubrication was obviously what Dean needed because after a few more tugs he came with a jerk and a grunt, head collapsing against Sam's chest, his hot breath panting a damp patch into Sam's t-shirt.

Dean chuckled, still breathing hard. "Scratch that off today's to-do list."

Sam's eyes fell closed. His other hand, which had begun petting at Dean's hair, dropped. He nudged Dean away, wiping his hand on his t-shirt and hating the fact that he'd be driving home wearing that t-shirt. He pulled his jeans straight, zipped up and threw Dean a "thanks for the drink," as he walked back to his car. What else was there to say, really?

About a week later, Sam was on a legitimate hunt. He hadn't even had to lie to Cas this time. Besides, Cas had been busy with Hannah, so Sam had hardly even felt guilty. It was a relief. A guy that Sam had taken psych class with at Stanford had tracked him down through Becky Warren, who Sam hadn't heard from since about a year after the shifter case in St Louis. Becky and her brother Zach had made a genuine effort to keep in touch, but in the end Sam had realised that Dean was right. In their job it was just illogical to keep close to people, to think you could hang on to old friendships. Sam had let them go.

So he was pretty surprised to hear from Dan, who he had barely known at Stanford. But Becky must've let slip what it was he did, and people remembered that sort of thing when their students started inexplicably dying.

Dan was teaching now at Southern Utah University, which had quite a reputation for being haunted. Of course no-one at the University really took it seriously, but Sam had seen it mentioned in John's journal and was kind of surprised that they hadn't found their way there before now.

The job ended up being a form of ghost sickness. A few decades back a psychology student by the name of Nash had started having delusions and was soon diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. Poor kid had been some sort of genius, but his mental breakdown had led to him stabbing his pencil through his wrists late one night in the psychology lecture hall. If they'd found the guy in time, he could have been saved. The wounds were deep but the points of entry relatively small, nothing that would've been impossible to patch up. It must've taken a fair amount of time for him to bleed out. Apparently the pencil had hung around campus as some sort of underground talisman, infecting the kids who used it and pushing them to their own deaths. The deaths had escalated in the last year or so—Sam hadn't been able to figure out why—and Dan had called him, desperate. It hadn't been easy to find the right pencil on a college campus, but he'd gotten the job done, burning both pencil and Nash's bones for good measure.

Dan had been really thankful and really relieved to see Sam go.

When Sam got to his hotel—he'd splurged on a nice room with a big tub for a change, after all he'd only been paying for one person the last few months—he spotted the Impala parked across the street and sighed. His heart rate sped up and his jeans started to feel a little tight. He knew full well what would happen.

Sam hadn't expected Dean to have gained access to his room, but then he really wasn't that surprised either

"Told her you were my brother, and I wanted to surprise you. Gave her the full works so she caved pretty easily," Dean shrugged. He was reclining on the bed, looking like he owned the place, eating candy from a brown paper bag in his lap, which he gestured to, asking "Want some?"

"No," Sam said simply, pulling off his boots and walking into the bathroom. He ran himself a bath, trying not to wonder if Dean would hang around or leave. Trying not to hope that he would stay. But he was sweaty, had graveyard dirt, bone ash and ectoplasm all over and, regardless of what might or might not happen later, Sam needed to get the stench of that hunt off of himself.

He gave himself the luxury of having a long soak, before cleaning himself thoroughly using up three of the hotel's tiny complimentary bottles of body wash and rinsing all the remnants of the salt and burn out of his hair. After climbing out of the tub and wrapping himself in one of those soft hotel towels, he made sure to rinse all the grit and grime which had settled at the bottom of the tub down the drain. Then he turned around, straightened his shoulders, and opened the door, ready to deal with whatever was, or was not, in the room beyond.

Dean was still there. Still munching candy. He had turned the TV on with the sound down low, and was quietly laughing at whatever was showing. He looked so much like his brother, face stuffed full, laughing at some inane show, that Sam's heart broke. He missed Dean so much. When Sam stepped out of the bathroom, a cloud of steam followed him and he kind of hoped that it looked really dramatic. The towel was wrapped tightly around his waist. He didn't want to seem too eager or seductive. Besides, Dean already knew he was a sure thing. Pathetic.

Dean watched Sam walk over to his duffel bag and start sorting through clothes, looking for something to put on.

"Don't," he said.

Sam turned his head towards the bed, still rummaging in his bag. "Don't what?"

"Don't get dressed. I've got plans for you tonight kid, and they don't include clothes."

When Sam stood back up and turned around, dropping the briefs he'd had in his hands, Dean had stood up from the bed and was pulling off his own clothes. There was nothing rushed about it, it was totally casual, almost domestic. He took everything off but his own briefs, then looked over at Sam.

"C'mon, Sam. I want you on the bed. Make sure you're comfortable. You're going to be there for a while.

He'd asked for this. He wanted this. God, he really wanted this.

So he did as Dean asked. The tone of Dean's voice had made clear it was a request. No orders, not yet. Sam could still say no, kick the demon out. But he wouldn't and Dean knew he wouldn't. He was smiling at Sam with a knowing smile that was seventy percent Dean with the rest all demon. Sam found it difficult to look at him.

As he was making himself comfortable on the bed, he looked over at Dean who was busy with something at the dresser. Dean looked into the mirror and saw Sam watching him. He smiled again, and gave a little twist of his head, which Sam took to mean that he should turn over onto his stomach. Leaving one pillow for his head and placing another under his hips, Sam shoved the rest onto the floor and, wrapping his arms around the pillow at his head, he lay down, face turned towards Dean, who was now walking back to the bed.

Sam was bone tired and the bed was really comfortable, but when Dean climbed onto the bed and straddled him Sam knew there was no danger of him falling asleep. The feeling of his brother's naked flesh against his was something Sam didn't think he could ever get used to or grow tired of. It lit him up inside.

"Aw, poor baby," Dean cooed, in a tone that was just this side of mocking. "Did the mean ghost throw you around. Did he hurt you? Is your giant body sore and aching?"

Sam ignored the mild taunting, and asked, "How did you know it was a ghost? Were you working the case too?"

"Nah. Knew you had this one in the bag. Unlike that wendigo you let go free in Piedmont."

Jesus. He had. Sam had driven away from Piedmont after using Dean up, and hadn't even given it a second thought. What the fuck was wrong with him?

Where to start

"Don't sweat it Sam. I took him out. Needed to work through some kinks anyway, the workout did me a world of good."

Sam couldn't see Dean's face but he would've bet the Bunker that Dean had winked at him as he said that.

"Oh. Well... thanks," Sam said softly.

"No problem. It's what big brothers do, or so I've heard. Take care of their pain-in-the-ass little brothers. Apparently that's a thing."

Sam didn't buck Dean off of his body and run out the room screaming, but it was a near thing. Instead he just squeezed his eyes tightly shut and swallowed hard. Squeezed the pillow a little tighter. And didn't say a word.

Dean trailed his fingers along Sam's skin, like he was stroking a spooked cat. "Don't think I've gone soft, kiddo. Just need you relaxed. Pliable," Dean tagged on darkly. "We're a few days from Lebanon, I have nowhere to be, you're avoiding the angel... I've been waiting for the opportunity to take my time with you, Sam."

And he took his time. Dean used his hands and his fingers and his tongue to relax every inch of Sam's body. Before Dean had even got to his ass, Sam was a shivering mess. Nothing but small whines were escaping from him, but Dean had seemed to understand him just fine.

"I know, baby. I know what you need," Dean said, turning all his attention on Sam's ass. Sam was getting used to the constant contrast of bliss and disgust that being with Dean made him feel. He barely cringed at the hated 'baby.' And the things Dean was doing with his fingers back there, helped Sam to not think about it. God, his fingers were magic. Sam thought about how Dean's fingers had now touched every inch of him and it made him shiver.

Dean slowly worked up to three fingers and then four, the lube slick and warm, in absolutely no hurry, seeming for all the world as if the only thing he cared about was Sam's pleasure.

"Gonna make you come just like this, little brother. On my fingers. All you get is my fingers. We are going to stay right here, just like this, me working your hole with my fingers, until you fucking come."

Dean said it like a threat, like it was something that Sam wouldn't be able to do, but Sam was already so close that a little while later—or hours later, Sam's time sense was literally fucked—Sam did just that. He came without a touch on his dick for the first time in his life, Dean biting and sucking at his back as Sam spasmed around his fingers.

"So. Fucking. Hot."

After that, after Dean had done what he had meant to do—take his time with Sam, and drive him out of his ever-loving mind—he wasted no time in fucking Sam hard and fast into the mattress. Sam was so sexed up and sated that he barely noticed, but Dean didn't seem to mind, and when he was done, he collapsed on top of Sam, breathing hard.

Eventually he got up and pulled away. Sam assumed he was going to leave, which was fine with him. He actually felt pretty good, comparatively speaking, and was sure he would get the best night's sleep he'd had in ages. But he'd been wrong. It was Dean who cleaned him up this time, doing a pretty thorough job. Then he rolled Sam over so that he could lift the duvet, and rolled Sam back pulling the covers over him. And Dean got in on the other side of the bed, turned the lights off and went to sleep. The bed was big, and they lay on opposite sides of it. There was no cuddling, no sort of affection. But Dean was there. He stayed. And Sam didn't know what to do with that.

In the morning, Dean was gone. There were no messages on Sam's phone.

Dean only waited a day and a half before he texted Sam again. Sam was in the car still making his way back to the Bunker when he got the text. He was taking his time driving back home, trying to figure things out. Okay, he was avoiding Cas. He was absolutely avoiding Cas. They'd kept in touch, but Sam knew that the next time he saw the angel, he would have to have something to tell him, one way or another.

So Dean wanting to meet up at a small motel just east of Grand Junction—almost exactly halfway between Cedar City and Lebanon—was in all honesty, a relief. It meant that he could put off talking to Cas. Also, Sam was ninety-nine percent sure now, that Dean was following him. The hookup locations were just too convenient. Sam had tried to be extra vigilant, wanting to catch Dean out, but so far he hadn't been able to see any sign of him. Then suddenly there would be a text directing Sam to a place relatively close to his current location. Sam had even started asking at gas stops and motels if anyone had seen a '67 Impala, but nobody ever had. And it was hard to miss that car.

Dean was just that good.

Sam met him at the motel, and Dean was in a more reserved mood than Sam had seen him in since their time together during the wendigo hunt. Not quite as silent, but also not the cocky, dirty-talking son-of-a-bitch Sam was getting used to.

Dean offered Sam a glass of whisky. A real glass. And not-too-cheap whisky. Sam accepted it and sat down on one of the beds. Two beds this time, unlike the first night. He took a big swig of the amber liquid, put the glass on the carpet next to him, and bent over to unlace his boots. Might as well get undressed. There was no point in pretending anything other than sex was going to happen.

Dean stood in the middle of the room, sipping from his own glass, watching Sam. When Sam was down to his underwear, he looked up and asked, "So? Where do you want me?"

Dean smiled a grim smile, gulped down the remainder of his drink, putting the glass on top of the old TV set as he walked past it on his way to the bed. "Lie down, Sam. On your back," he said, and started taking off his own clothes.

Something felt different to Sam. Dean was obviously in some mood, but he couldn't read this Dean like he used to be able to read his brother. If it had been his brother, Sam would've said that something was bothering him, some problem was on his mind. And also that he was a little sad. But it wasn't his brother, not really. Sam didn't ask what was wrong, didn't want to care if the demon who'd destroyed his brother was upset about something. So he didn't. He made himself comfortable on the bed and waited. When Dean was naked, he leant over Sam, and pulled Sam's briefs down his legs. There was nothing seductive about it, just getting rid of something there was no need for, something that would be in the way. Then Dean crawled onto the bed and straddled Sam.

Sam had not been expecting that. His eyes widened and he lifted his eyebrows at Dean in a question.

"You just lie there, brother. I don't need you to do a single thing but watch and take it." With that, Dean reached behind and started fingering himself. "Spent some time in the shower this afternoon, Sam. Worked myself open just for you. For your huge—" Dean broke off with a little grunt. Sam could see he wasn't being very gentle. "Made sure I'd be all slick inside, ready and waiting." After only a minute or so—plenty of time for Sam to get hard, the sight of what Dean was doing to himself for Sam was crazy hot—Dean reached for Sam's cock and positioned it at his opening. Then he slowly lowered himself onto Sam's lap. Dean had not been lying, he took Sam easily. Almost no resistance, like sliding into hot, wet silk.

"Fuuuuck," Sam groaned, drawing the word out.

That same grim smile was still on Dean's face, and Sam was sure now that he was sad. Which made absolutely no sense.

"Needed to do this face to face. Even just once. I needed to watch you while I took you, while I rode you."

Dean was speaking so quietly, almost as if he was talking to himself, that Sam wasn't sure if he had even been meant to hear any of that. It had sounded so much like his brother—except that his brother would never had said such things. Just this once, Sam thought to himself, and looked at the man on top of him. Looked right at him and never stopped looking. And pretended it was his Dean. It wasn't at all hard to do. The demon was fucking him slowly, almost gently, and taking him so deep inside himself. There was an emotional intensity to it that took Sam's breath away.

It was slow and sensual, and so fucking sexy. Dean was driving both of them toward their orgasms, patiently but relentlessly. After what felt like a lifetime, Dean took himself in hand and made sure he got there ahead of Sam. The feel of Dean's come splattered across his chest, and of Dean clenching around him made Sam fall not too long after. Dean was leaning over him breathing hard, his hands on Sam's chest keeping him upright, his head bowed. Sam had no idea what to say.

Sam slipping out of him seemed to rouse Dean and he straightened, then sat back on Sam's thighs. He took a long look at Sam's body, head to groin, but without looking at Sam's eyes. Sam watched Dean's eyes though, and he was pretty sure they were cataloguing all the marks that were visible on his body. Bruises on his hips, small scabs where the blisters on his chest from the Impala's hot hood had healed over, various bite marks and hickies, other bruises... Dean's scrutiny made Sam wonder about the marks he'd left on Dean's body. Dean's lip was healed, the cut on his neck barely visible. The angle wasn't quite right so Sam couldn't see if his own bite mark was still on Dean's shoulder. He couldn't let himself think of the other mark... Strange things happened to Sam's emotions when he thought about the other mark. So instead he focused on the Mark of Cain on Dean's arm, which was horribly clear, even in the dim light. His emotions about that mark, at least, were clear.

"...think I like this," Dean swiped a finger through a drop of the cooling fluid on Sam's chest and brought it to his mouth, "better than all these other marks." He put his finger in his mouth and sucked it clean. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, the sight too much. The words way too much.

Dean looked at Sam for a while longer, and then he got up and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Sam heard the shower start up.

Ten minutes later, Dean was putting his clothes back on, and gathering his things. "Should still be hot water for you. And the room is paid up for the night. You can stay. Or go. Whatever." And just before he shut the motel room door behind him on his way out, Sam heard, "See ya around, Sammy."

When Sam finally got back to the Bunker, Cas wasn't there. He'd let Sam know that he'd be busy with Hannah for a few days. He'd asked Sam to take care of himself.

So Sam had been haunting the Bunker for almost a week, not knowing what to do with himself, not having the motivation to work. He still couldn't sleep, he couldn't concentrate on reading, he'd tried watching some of the TV shows they'd put on the laptop for Cas, but he couldn't focus and lost the thread of the plot lines. 'Haunting' was really the only word for what Sam had been doing.

Finally Cas had phoned and told Sam that he was on his way back and would more than likely be home the following day. That made Sam feel better and much worse. He had been lying on his bed trying not to think about how he was going to deal with Cas, when a text came through. Picking up his phone, the locked screen lighting up to show 02:07am, Sam opened the text. It was from Dean. It read, "I'm outside."

Sam scrambled off of his bed so fast, he almost tripped over the boots that he'd left lying there. Outside?! What does he mean 'outside'?!" Dean could not be at the Bunker. Surely he wasn't that crazy.

Sam pulled his boots onto his bare feet, and without doing up the laces, threw on the first t-shirt he saw, and ran up to the Bunker's entrance. Sure enough, there was the Impala, looking so right parked in front of the Bunker even dirty as she was. Sam could've wept. And he was pissed.

Sam strode up to where Dean was sitting sideways on the backseat, legs hanging out the door and whisper-shouted, "What the fuck do you think you're doing here? Are you nuts? Cas could be here, anyone could be here, and they would not hesitate to send you straight to Hell!"

Dean looked at Sam calmly. "Is anyone here?"

"You're keeping tabs on me!" Sam accused. "You're staking out the Bunker too? You are nuts. Have to be. You must have a death wish." Sam was exasperated. And frustrated with himself, because if someone would just send this bastard to Hell, all Sam's problems would be sorted. Well. One major one would be anyway. But then people would find out about everything and that could NOT happen.

"Aw, don't be mad, baby." The son-of-a-bitch was back. "Just needed a fuck and I was in the area, and you're in the area..." Dean shrugged. "It's not a big deal, the angel is out of town, and you're allll aloooone." Dean took a swig from a bottle Sam hadn't noticed he was holding. This was the cheap whiskey.

"Christ, you're drunk!"

"Not too drunk. C'mon little brother. Let me—" and Dean reached for him, pulled him in by the waistband of his sleep pants. Sam made a half-hearted attempt to pull away, thought that he probably shouldn't have sex with a drunk demon, and then laughed out loud. Because the 'drunk' was the bit he was worrying about. Nevermind the part about 'demon' or 'brother'...

They ended up sprawled on the back seat of the Impala, kissing sloppily and thrusting against each other. Sam's sleep pants came off easily. Dean's jeans and boots were a bit more of a challenge. They didn't bother taking off their t-shirts. Dean got Sam to lie back on the seat, and with some careful maneuvering and bumping of elbows and knees, he climbed over Sam with his mouth to Sam's cock, his cock to Sam's eager mouth. Dean's right leg was bent next to Sam's head, while his left was planted on the floor of the Impala, helping to hold the position.

They sucked each other off like that, quick and dirty. Dean's mouth was full of Sam, but Sam had no doubt that if his mouth hadn't been occupied, it would have been spewing filth at him. This was the same man from the first night, the same man from the night on the hood of the Impala. Sam had recognised the glint in his eye. Even drunk, maybe especially when drunk, this was the cruel user and abuser.

What was Sam thinking? It was all the same fucking demon who had left him without a brother.

Dean sucked a bruise into Sam's hip. In retaliation, Sam left a bite mark on Dean's, sucking at his teeth to get at the faint flavor of Dean's blood. When they had both finished, and the demon had gotten what he came for, he put his shoes and jeans back on, kicked Sam out the car, climbed behind the wheel, and drove away, waving at Sam from the car window.

Sam stood looking down the road for a long time after the car was gone. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take.

It took Dean a couple of weeks to contact Sam after that. And Sam had started to panic. What if something had happened? What if Dean—the demon—was dead? What if Sam had done something wrong and Dean didn't want him anymore? What if he'd found someone else, someone better?

Because, see the thing was? Sam needed this. He needed this slice of Dean. Needed anything he could get. The demon knew that. That was why Sam kept going back, letting Dean do what he wanted to him, whatever he wanted. He didn't think there was a limit to what he would let Dean do to him, and while that was terrifying, for Sam the more terrifying thing was for there to be nothing left of Dean for him to hold on to. For that last slice to be taken away.

So when Dean finally did contact him, Sam practically fell over himself in his rush to get to the address Dean had sent. And loathed himself for it.

Dean had picked a pretty nice place on the banks of Lovewell Reservoir, barely half an hour's drive from Lebanon. Sam was sure the view would be nice during the day. As it was, the small porch that Dean was standing on when Sam drove up looked over a large expanse of blackness. Nothing was visible but the stars.

One bed this time, and Dean had apparently been busy setting up while he waited for Sam. As Sam stepped into the room, he saw a bottle of lube on the nightstand, and a set of cuffs hanging from a post at each of the four corners of the bed. Sam had no doubt that this bed was at least one of the reasons Dean had chosen this place.

"Ain't scared of a little restraint, are you kiddo?" That oily feeling returned with the way Dean said those words.

Sam looked at Dean and considered. Either this was just another kink, and Sam would go away feeling sated and disgusted with himself and hoping for more, or the demon planned to have his way with Sam and kill him. The handcuffs would make sure that Sam would not be able to defend himself.

When Sam thought about those two possible outcomes, really the worst case scenario seemed like the better option.

So Sam shrugged and started to undress.

"That's m'boy," Dean said smugly.

Jesus, if he would just shut up, Sam thought. These little phrases, little endearments were the worst sort of torture for Sam. And he knew the demon was getting them straight from Dean's memories and it hurt so much.

Within a couple of minutes Sam was lying naked on the bed and Dean was positioning him just as he wanted him. He pulled Sam's limbs toward each corner of the bed so that he was spreadeagled, and fastened the cuffs around Sam's wrists first, and then his ankles. Sam had never really had kinky sex before. Nothing like this. But he and Jess had played around with cuffs from an Adult Store a few times, and Sam knew that those cuffs had some sort of fabric or cushioning on the inside to prevent injuries. The cuffs Dean was using were not those kind of cuffs. These were police-issue, hard metal, nothing to prevent chafing or the breaking of skin. You asked for this.

"Oh man, will you look at that," Dean declared when he had snapped closed the last handcuff. "That is fucking gorgeous."

Sam tried not to blush from shame, but from the look on Dean's face he failed miserably.

"You're like some fucking work of art, Sam. Should be on display so that people can see how filthy-gorgeous you are."

Sam's heart jumped. What if that's what the demon planned? To put Sam on display. Oh god, oh god, oh god. Sam started to panic, his breathing coming fast and hard.

Dean patted Sam's ankle, and started to undress himself. "Don't worry little brother. No-one but us here tonight. But it's a thought, yes? Maybe..."

"No." Sam said it decisively, with as much authority as he could muster while naked and tied to a bed.

Dean chuckled. "We'll see. You're awfully persuadable, Sam."

He was, Sam knew it. Especially when it came to his brother. God, he wished it would all just end.

Dean walked around the bed, checking the cuffs and stroking any bit of Sam's skin that he could reach, making Sam shiver.

"Let's get started."

Dean climbed over Sam and reached for the bottle of lube, putting it on the mattress next to him. He started at Sam's mouth, licking his way inside and kissing Sam long and hard. Sam wanted to touch and was already pulling on the restraints, reflexively trying to pull his arms in, so that he could wrap them around Dean. Dean just chuckled at every clink of the cuffs. He kissed his way around Sam's neck, biting along the flesh, and then licking, paying special attention to the dip at Sam's clavicle. By the time Dean got to Sam's chest, Sam was breathless with need. Every pleasurable touch was intensified by the strain on his shoulders, on his calf and thigh muscles, and the stinging rawness where the cuffs were chafing against his flesh.

Dean spent a good long while sucking at Sam's nipples, pulling at them with his teeth and then licking them soothingly. He did this over and over and over again until Sam was quivering.

"Come on, you... Please just. I need you to touch me. This—it's driving me crazy."

Dean looked up with that oily grin. "But I am touching you, Sam."

"No, I—" Sam broke off as Dean bit down on his left nipple.

"Shut up," Dean said, and the menace in his voice sent shivers down Sam's spine. Although he was getting lost in the pleasure and the pain of what was happening to him, Sam hadn't forgotten the two possible outcomes, and nothing so far had yet pointed in either direction definitively.

Sam stopped talking then. But he made plenty of noise. Every time Dean bit down on a piece of skin, Sam would hiss, every time he sucked, Sam would groan. His tongue left Sam whimpering. By the time Dean was eye level with Sam's cock, Sam was practically incoherent.

"I like you this way, kid," Dean said as he coated his fingers with lube. "Your big brain shut down. No words, no thoughts, nothing but need, need, need. I think I'll keep you like this for a while."

Dean started to work on Sam's opening, ignoring his very hard erection. With one finger, he rubbed at Sam's insides until he found his prostate, and then with every alternate in-stroke he made sure that he brushed that bundle of nerves, making Sam gasp and twist and pull against the cuffs. Dean kept it at one finger for long minutes before adding a second, and then continued the torture. By the time Dean was up to three fingers, Sam was on the brink of coming. Dean went back to two fingers, avoiding the sweet spot. When Sam had calmed down, Dean started up again. Once or twice he pulled out completely and squeezed hard around the base of Sam's cock. "Oh no little brother," he said. "Not until I decide that you can."

Eventually, Dean had four fingers in Sam, and was twisting his wrist in a way that made Sam's eyes roll back. Once again, Sam came to the brink, only to have Dean pull out and stop all stimulation. When Dean said, "I think you're ready for my cock, Sam," Sam thought he might cry with relief.

Dean slicked up his cock, which was unnecessary considering the amount of lube he had already used on Sam's ass, and positioned himself at Sam's entrance. Then he slammed into Sam so hard, it punched all the air out of him, and Sam was left gasping and groaning as Dean pulled out and slammed back in. Dean's pace was punishing, and Sam found himself wondering if that was what this was. Some sort of punishment for… what? The pleasure and pain were getting mixed up in Sam's nerve endings, and he knew he was pulling too hard on the restraints, that he would have serious welts in his skin, but he couldn't help himself. He wanted to touch Dean, to hold him. He wanted to get away from him. He never wanted to leave. He was pulling against all the conflicted feelings raging within himself. He was pulling so that he would hurt himself.

Dean's thrusts weren't aimed at giving Sam pleasure, were only focused on ensuring his own. But every now and then he still hit that spot, and after he had Sam gasping and begging, "touch me, please, I need to, just touch me," he mercifully wrapped his hand around Sam's incredibly hard cock. It took only a few strokes before Sam came, spasming uncontrollably, his arm and leg muscles pulling powerfully against the cuffs, his skin breaking against the metal.

A few thrusts more and Dean followed him, but Sam was barely aware of his brother collapsing on top of him, chest heaving, breath hot against his chest. He hardly noticed when Dean pulled out of him, or when he climbed off the bed, and started unlocking the cuffs.

When Sam began to be aware again of what was happening around him, the covers had been pulled off the bed, and he was lying on the clean sheets underneath. He felt clean and instead of smelling sweat and sex, his skin smelled of soap. He was too tired to lift his head properly, so he moved it from side to side, trying to get his bearings. He saw Dean busy with something in the bathroom. He hadn't really expected him to still be here. Sam tested his arms and legs, contracting the muscles, lifting them a little. Everything worked okay. And everything hurt like a motherfucker.

"You're awake." Dean said without emotion as he stepped back into the room.

"Was I... sleeping?" Sam asked, his words a little slurry, his mouth very dry.

"You were definitely out of it, sleeping or not." Dean had put one knee on the bed and was leaning over Sam. "Let me see," he reached for Sam's wrists. Sam wanted to pull away but simply didn't have the strength. What the fuck did Dean think he was doing?

'Not too bad," Dean muttered. "Still..." he went back into the bathroom and fetched what looked like two tubes of lotion.

"Roll over," he ordered. Sam looked at him blankly.

"Fuck, could you just," Dean muttered angrily as he climbed onto the bed and rolled Sam's body over so that he was lying on his stomach. Then he straddled Sam and started rubbing arnica cream into Sam's shoulder muscles. Sam recognised the smell; they always kept some handy for muscle sprains. Tears sprang to his eyes. Sam felt like he'd stepped into some alternate universe. What the fuck was happening?

Dean rubbed the arnica into Sam's shoulders, and down along his right bicep and forearm, stopping just short of his wrist. Then he did the same to the other arm. He rubbed the lotion along Sam's spine, and spent some extra time on the muscles in Sam's lower back. Then he moved down and worked the arnica into Sam's thigh and calf muscles one leg at a time. He wasn't particularly gentle but he wasn't rough either. By the time he was finished, Sam was sobbing quietly into the pillow.

He thought Dean was finished with him when he felt him climb off the bed, hoping that he would leave, but then he felt Dean lift his foot, and begin to rub something cool into the tortured skin there. He finished with both ankles and came up to Sam's wrists. Sam turned his head and opened his eyes enough to take a peek. He saw Dean concentrating on rubbing some kind of gel into the welt on his wrist. The tube on the bed next to him read 'Aloe Gel: for wounds and abrasions.'

And that was it. Sam could not take one more moment. He pulled away with an anguished, "I can't keep doing this," muffled into the pillow.

Dean stopped what he was doing. He didn't look at Sam though. Just picked up the tube of aloe and stood there. "It's messing me up, you don't know. It's like bliss one minute, and then torment. You're him for a second, a moment, and then he's gone, and I'm left with... what? This is going to kill me. Fuck, don't you see? Either kill me here and now and put me out of this misery or leave me the fuck alone. I. Can't." Sam pulled his arms and legs in and having said all he had the strength to say, he closed his eyes and let the tears soak into the pillow.

He felt the covers being pulled up, over and around him.

He heard the door to the room close.

And then he heard the Impala start up, and drive away.

Chapter song: Temporary Bliss by The Cab

(Blame this song for this hot mess of a fic)