Sam blinks, hand held up to deflect the sharp ray of sunlight. He raises his arms and stretches. It's not the worst bed he's ever had, by far, but having the cast on his foot makes moving around at night awkward, and his back gets kind of stiff. He can't wait to get the damned thing off tomorrow. It itches like crazy and it's starting to stink.

Sam rolls to the edge of the bed and sits up, rubbing his eyes with both hands. His phone beeps. It's a text message from Kelly. Hey. On my way to my last final…wish me luck! Sam smiles. Thinking about exams brings back a lot of memories, and some of them are even good. He hasn't seen Kelly since the day he did laundry, but they've talked on the phone a few times. The thought makes him frown. Even phone calls are a bad idea at this point, a risky indulgence, like a sweet taste on his tongue. It just leaves him wanting more of something he can't have.

Sam pulls his crutches over and heaves himself up onto them. He's gotten a lot better at it over the last few weeks, but this is still the most awkward trek he makes every day—first trip to the bathroom, barely awake and wobbly in the knees. He clumps around the corner and sees Dean's bed hasn't been slept in. It's not the first time Dean's been out all night. Hell, it's not even the first time this week. If he does make it in, it's pretty consistently around one or two in the morning; the only variation is how much he's had to drink. Dean doesn't talk about where he's been and Sam doesn't ask. He doesn't want to disturb the uneasy truce they've established in the week since the little dust-up at the Wild Coyote. Actually, it's less like a truce and more like a non-negotiated ceasefire because they haven't spoken about it again.

Sam finishes his business in the bathroom and hobbles over to dig his phone out of his jeans pocket, checks the time. Shit. He thumbs Dean's number. It rings until the voicemail picks up and Sam flips it shut irritably. Then he dials again. And again. Finally he hears Dean's desiccated croak in his ear.

"What?"

"Dude. It's 7:30 a.m."

"Mm. So?"

"You're supposed to be at work in half an hour, Dean."

"Work. Fuck." Dean groans loudly. Sam pictures Dean's sitting up, his head not appreciating the motion.

"Where are you?"

"Car." Dean rasps, then adds, "Somewhere."

Sam sighs. "Great."

Dean takes a breath and coughs, clears his throat, spits audibly. Sam holds the phone out at arm's length, grimacing in distaste. He brings it back to his ear.

"Call 'em and tell 'em I'm sick, Sammy."

"Dean…" Sam blinks hard, lets a breath out through his nose. "No. Look, I haven't said anything about all the drinking, figured you're a big boy. But I'm not enabling this shit. Call them yourself." Before Sam hangs up, he hears Dean's huff.

"Thanks, bro."

**

Dean closes his eyes and tosses the phone down, sinks back against the Impala's seat. His stomach gives a vicious warning roll and he obediently stops moving until it backs off. Bitch of a hangover. He opens his eyes and a flash of sunlight bounces off the Impala's hood and lances through his brain, makes him grab his head in both hands. And okay, maybe he's the bitch here, because he's totally down for the count until this damned headache lets him up off the mat.

There's a hard knot in his stomach, too, but it's been there a while—months at least. Alcohol's not the cause; it's just the temporary fix. Too bad he can't empty his guts and get rid of it, spill it onto the pavement like the waste it is and drive away, leave it behind. If he could puke up this particular poison, he'd have done it long ago.

He vomits anyway. The spasm comes over him in hard, unforgiving waves that hurt like a bitch and leave no relief in their wake. He tries not to look at the mess, but what he does see makes him think it might be tinged with blood. He turns away and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. When he's pretty sure he's done puking, he gets back in and shuts his door, takes a look around. He doesn't recognize the street, has no clue where he is and even less idea how he got there, but he knows one thing. He needs coffee.

Dean starts the car and turns at the first intersection, figures left is as good a direction as any. He realizes he does know this street. He pulls into a little diner. They're busy, so they probably have decent coffee, not that the quality matters at this point. He goes inside and uses the facilities, washes up a little. He still stinks, but he's pretty sure the olfactory evidence of a bad night is nothing new in a place like this. When he comes out, the breakfast crowd is still there, but he finds a spot at the end of the counter. The waitress doesn't even ask, just raises her eyebrows at the pot in her hand. She has a cup filled in front of him before he's done nodding.

He drinks the coffee fast, ignoring the way it burns his throat and using force of will to control his stomach's threat to send it back. Dean turns his back to the wall, checks the other customers for anything unusual, force of habit to classify the bodies in the room—either predator or potential prey.

He sees zombies. The same bland, glassy-eyed look is on every face and it's no fucking wonder. Dean has figured it out, this life, this "normal" thing. These people, doing the same thing every day, in the same stupid little town—they're not alive. They're all just going through the motions until they finally die for real. Christ, they're like a bunch of sheep; no wonder the wolves are picking 'em off.

Dean throws some cash on the counter and stalks out. He can feel their dead eyes on him as he leaves, but they don't see him, won't remember him. He doesn't raise a ripple in their stagnant little pond. At least Sam will be out of the cast before long, so they can get the hell out of Dodge. Can't be soon enough.

It's still too damned bright outside, but the has coffee improved his headache a little. Dean checks his watch—eight-thirty. He's a half-hour late already. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. A list of excuses scrolls through his mind, until he finally says to hell with it. He's not going back to work.

Inventing new and exciting ways to fuck up is a full time job anyway.

**

Sam's lounging on the couch with his bad foot propped on the chair beside him, staring into space. He's always been pretty good at keeping his mind occupied, but it's getting to be an uphill job. He even got desperate enough to read The Stand, spent most of the morning finishing it. It was a little better than doing nothing, but all the post-apocalyptic imagery hasn't done much for his mood.

Or maybe he's just been watching too much daytime TV. It's mostly half-baked talk show hosts, news and courtroom shows, but the soaps are the worst. He can't really stay interested long enough to follow what's going on, but at least one has a storyline involving a Friday the 13th-style psycho killer, and he flipped past another yesterday where some girl was having sex with her half-brother. Sam shakes his head. Where do they come up with this shit? It would depress anybody.

Sam's trying to decide if a nap would interfere too much with his sleep that night when Dean walks in. Sam frowns.

"You're home early."

"No shit."

Sam moves his foot off the chair a half second before Dean drops into it. Dean leans back and closes his eyes. Sam watches him. He looks like hell and he doesn't smell that great, either. Probably didn't go to work today. Sam's thinking about asking when his phone rings. He looks at the screen before he answers.

"Kelly, hey," Sam says.

Dean's lip curls in a smirk.

"That's good. Bet you're glad finals are over." He pauses. "Well yeah, you should celebrate. Dinner? Oh, no, I…"

Dean's eyes pop open and he starts making shooing motions, mouthing, "Go," at Sam. If Sam was more mobile he'd go in the other room to take the call, Dean's so distracting.

"What? Sorry, Kelly, can you hold on a minute?" Sam puts her on hold. "Dean, knock it off."

"She's hot, man! What's the matter with you? Why are you bein' such a pussy?"

"What's the point? My foot's better, the cast is coming off tomorrow and you know you're not going to want to stay here a minute longer than we have to."

"All the more reason. Give her something to remember you by, dude."

"Right. 'Jobless, penniless, busted-up guy'—that's something to remember."

Dean pulls his wallet out of his pocket and pulls out some cash, tosses it at Sam. Sam doesn't pick it up.

"It's just dinner, Sam. Although I still think you got a shot with this one…" Dean says, shaking his head.

Sam thinks about it and he decides Dean's right, in a way. Not about "taking his shot" or whatever, but he does owe Kelly something in the way of goodbye, if nothing else. She's been a friend and that doesn't happen to him often. Or ever, really.

"Kelly? Listen, let me buy you dinner…you'll have to drive…"

**

The last of the day's light is coating the horizon with bloody red when Dean hits the I-25 on-ramp. He smiles. Just watching Sam try to fold his lanky ass into that damned Civic was worth the money, and besides, it gets him out of the way. Dean needs to bring home the bacon tonight. He gave Sam his last c-note.

It's not a problem, just a little inconvenient. He figures he's worn out his welcome in Castle Rock and that means he has to make a trip to Denver. Although now that he thinks about it, an hour of highway driving isn't a bad thing. He pats the Impala's dashboard and chuckles.

"It's been a while, huh, baby?" He opens her up, feels the tension spooling out of him with the miles.

Dean makes the outskirts of Denver pretty early for the night crowd, but he's hungry anyway and that kills some time. He goes into a couple of places before he finds a bar with everything he's looking for—a little rough around the edges, but not too seedy, several well-maintained pool tables in the back. He waits, drinks a beer or three, until the marks start to show up. When he finally moves in on them, he's feeling pretty good. He can do this.

He's in the middle of a game when the girl slinks up, tight jeans and a low-cut top over a pretty nice rack, and…well, that's all Dean really needs to see before he returns his concentration to his game. Work first, play later.

Dean quits the table when he's three hundred to the good, and she's waiting for him. He spends an hour and some of his money buying her drinks and letting her talk. Her hair is long and dark and there's a space between her two front teeth. She's not Penthouse material or anything, but she smells good and she seems willing, and that's enough. By the time she gets around to inviting him back to her place, Dean knows her name is Desiree and that's about all. If she decides to test him later over the material she's just covered, he's completely screwed.

It works out okay, because when they get back to her apartment she suddenly loses all interest in talking. She jumps him as soon as they get inside the door, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down for a hungry kiss. He gets with the program in a hurry, he's real good at that, and he pushes her up against the wall just a little too hard. It knocks a sharp gasp out of her and he thinks sorry, but he can't get the word out before she's got her tongue in his mouth. It's all he can do to keep up with her; she's kissing him frantically and running her hands over him, so goddamned fierce with it.

It's exactly what he needs, to feel this, hard and sharp and almost painful. His head is light, like it's floating away, like he's watching himself from outside his body. He kisses her harder, trying to ground himself, needing something to hold on to. She moans a little and he twists his fingers in her hair and pulls her head back, sucks a mark into her neck. She clutches at his shoulders, cries out. It doesn't sound like pain to him.

So that's how it is.

He cups her ass in both hands and ruts hard against her, kissing and biting at her neck and shoulders, until she pulls away. She grabs his sleeve, uses it to pull him to the bedroom. She starts to strip then, not slow or seductive, just getting the job done. Hell, yes, Dean thinks, and his clothes hit the floor. By the time Dean's naked, Desiree is laid out on the bed, smiling up at him. She wets her lips. He smiles back with predatory intent and she spreads her legs; he sucks in a breath. He lowers himself over her and she pulls him in close, pushing her hips up against his dick.

"Want you…inside me…now," she whispers into his neck. Dean blinks. So much for foreplay.

"Yes, ma'am," he says, low and rough. He sinks into her in one smooth motion, feeling her nails rake down his back, and he shivers.

He sets up an easy rhythm, and it's nice, but something's off right there—"nice" just isn't the word he'd normally use. Usually by this point he's having to mentally break down his Glock or something, distract himself to slow things down. There's none of that urgency here. He feels disconnected, like his body belongs to someone else and what the hell? He gives himself a mental shake. Thinking too much, Dean.

Then he feels her hand between them, and it brings him up short, because Dean's never been that guy. Any other time he'd put a stop to that shit, use his body to make her forget about touching herself—point of pride. But this time…she wants to run this show, let her, and he does, but it feels wrong, almost shameful. He makes himself look her in the eye while she finishes, wonders what she sees in his. He keeps moving until she cries out and arches under him. His own body responds then, but everything feels strange and out of sync, so that it's a shock when the orgasm hits him.

As soon as he catches his breath, Dean gets up to leave. This whole thing feels weird and awkward in a way it hasn't since he was a teenager. It's so bad he takes his clothes into the bathroom to dress, and he knows it's odd, but he can't bring himself to care too much. He's buttoning his jeans when he sees the red streaks on his chest in the mirror. He cranes around to look at his back, and she's left long nail marks there, too. Damn. How did he not notice that shit when it was happening? He must have been a lot drunker than he thought.

Dean heads back to Castle Rock. He rubs at his neck as he drives, the muscles in his neck and shoulders getting tighter with the miles. He wonders what happened to afterglow, because he's honestly starting to feel like shit, his limbs tired and feeling heavy.

The tires hit the rumble strip with a loud groan, and what the hell? He's not drunk and he shouldn't be that tired. Why is he so out of it? Dean shrugs it off. It won't be the first time his girl has gotten him where he needs to go with little or no help from him. Sometimes he swears she can drive herself.

He pulls over at a truck stop and gets some coffee. It's evidently enough, because the rest of the drive is uneventful, hardly any traffic on the interstate all the way into Castle Rock. Dean pulls up to the house and it's completely dark. There are lights on at Kelly's, though. Dean kills the motor, but he's not in a particular hurry to go inside. It feels better here in the car. He pulls his bottle from under the seat and it doesn't take him long to empty it, watching Kelly's house. After a few minutes, it occurs to him that yeah, he's actually watching Kelly's house, and that it's really a creepy thing to do, especially with his brother inside it. His brother who's with a girl.

He gets out of the Impala, shoulders heavy and tense, like he's carrying some kind of weight. It feels like there's a storm coming. No telling where it's going to land, but it's not going to be good, that much is sure. He goes inside and heads straight for his bedroom. There's another bottle there and that's good. He's not drunk enough for this.

**

Sam hangs up with Kelly; she's ready to leave for dinner. He has a moment of pure frustration when his sleeve catches on the storm door as he's going through, and he yanks at it irritably. He's so beyond ready to get rid of these stupid crutches. Just one more day.

Kelly comes out of her place just as Sam makes it to ground level, and of course Dean's followed him out. Naturally, he can't keep his mouth shut either.

"Take the shot, Sammy," Dean says, loud enough that Kelly's got to hear him. Sam frowns at Dean over his shoulder and gets a "What?" look in return. He shakes his head in disgust.

It takes several minutes for Sam and Kelly to figure out how to fit the crutches into her little car; the back seat is too small and they finally wind up wedging them between the two front seats. Sam lowers himself into the passenger side. Even with the seat pushed all the way back, his legs fold up until his knees are higher than the dashboard. He feels like he's sitting on the floor, but he still has to recline the seat a little to keep his head from brushing the ceiling. He thinks he couldn't possibly feel more ridiculous, until he looks over and sees Dean on the porch laughing at him.

Kelly gets in the driver's seat and Sam's left shoulder is nearly touching hers. She smiles at him, face about a foot away from his, and Sam's really hoping she's not about to start laughing, too. She looks him up and down, gives him a sort of awed look.

Kelly says, "Wow. There's just so much of you." She makes it sound like a good thing and tops it off with a little smile and Sam feels better. He holds the crutches out of her way so she can put the car in gear and they're off.

"I know a good Mexican place. What do you think?" Kelly says.

"Sure. Sounds good."

"It's not far," she says, with a wry grin.

"Even better," Sam replies, grinning back.

The restaurant has a laid back atmosphere, no loud mariachi music or anything, and Sam feels comfortable right away. They order and the beer comes and he decides he's going to enjoy himself after all.

"So, what exactly did Dean mean by 'take the shot'?" Kelly asks, looking at him innocently.

Sam winces. "Sorry. Dean means well, it's just…sometimes he takes this 'big brother' thing a little too seriously."

"I'm sure he just wants you to be happy," Kelly says, then pauses a moment before she adds, "like, really, really happy."

Sam chokes on his beer and Kelly laughs.

"Yeah," Sam says, grinning ruefully. "That was actually pretty subtle for Dean."

"It's okay. My brother drives me nuts sometimes, too. It must be worse when you live together."

Sam just nods. There's too much in that one sentence for him to even start. He changes the subject.

"So, you never said, what are you studying in school?"

"Natural resource management."

"Sounds interesting," Sam says, and it really isn't, but he likes the way her eyes flash when she talks, so he keeps her going on about it until the food comes. It is good and they spend a minute or two making small talk about that.

Then Kelly asks, "So what about you? What do you want to be when you grow up, Sam?"

He chuckles. "Good question. I'll have to get back to you on that."

"You should go to school…I mean, you're obviously smart." She pauses. "Sorry—it's none of my business."

"It's okay. Actually I went to college. Stanford."

"But not anymore."

"No." Sam looks down at his plate. "Just…some things happened and I decided to take some time off, went on a road trip with Dean, and then our Dad died, and…I just never went back." It's more than he meant to say and he takes a bite of his enchilada, avoiding Kelly's eyes.

"You could go back."

He smiles a little. "Seems like another life now." He takes a deep breath. "So, where does your brother live?"

Kelly quirks. "What was your college major?"

Sam gives her a quizzical look. "Pre-law. Why?"

"That explains a lot," she says, nodding.

"It does?"

"You're really good at steering the conversation away from things you don't want to talk about. You would have made a great lawyer."

Sam huffs a small laugh. "I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult."

"Just an observation." This time Kelly changes the subject, and they talk about nothing much until Kelly starts to yawn and they decide it's time to go. Sam's kind of sorry it's over.

Back at the house, Sam wrestles himself out of the car and onto his feet and "walks" Kelly up onto her porch. They pause at the door. Jax barks madly from the backyard.

"I don't think Jax likes me very much," Sam says.

"Jax likes you; I wouldn't have let you in my house if he didn't," Kelly answers, smiling up at him. She yawns again and they laugh.

"You're tired," Sam says, reaching for her.

"Uh huh," Kelly says, as she steps close.

"I should go," He says, leaning down to kiss her. He tries to make it good, memorable. He's afraid it's going to have to last him a long time.

When they finally pull back, Kelly says, "Come in for a while."

He shouldn't. He leans down and sucks an open-mouthed kiss at the base of her neck; she tips her head to the side for him.

"I can't. Gotta go," he says, nuzzling her ear.

Kelly nods and he pushes her hair behind her shoulder, kisses across it and up her neck.

"Come inside anyway," she says, hand on his cheek.

They go inside and he eases himself onto the couch. He feels a lot less awkward when he's not trying to stand. Things really improve when Kelly doesn't even bother being coy, just crawls onto the couch next to him and slinks up under his arm like a cat. He cups her face in his hand and kisses her, soft slide of tongues, mouth open under his, hot and sweet. She swings one leg over him then, straddles his lap, and oh, Jesus, it feels so good. She rocks against him and he pushes back, groaning softly, can't help it. It dawns on him then—this is probably the least awkward position they could pick, with him still dragging a cast around. God, no wonder he likes this girl.

He slides his hands up under her shirt and she lifts her arms so he can pull it off. She unhooks her bra and lets it fall off her shoulders slowly. She's gorgeous like that and he kisses her hard, thumbs gently teasing her nipples, and she moans into his mouth. She pulls back, says, "Now you," and reaches for his shirt. They work together to get it off him and he pulls her in, skin on skin, warm and silky smooth, and he can't even think, it's been so long since he's had this. Since Jessica. He has to pull back a little then, try to breathe through it.

That's when it comes, a soft touch across the back of his neck. Maybe it's just a draft, a shiver of nerves, but it feels like a presence, a benediction. Something slips away from him then, like a second skin he's been wearing, armor to protect himself from the hurt, thick and heavy. It's loss and relief at the same time, and then he knows. This is okay.

He looks into Kelly's deep green gaze, drinks it in, feels like he's falling and he can't stop it. He pulls her in, overwhelmed with want of her, and she responds, kissing him back, wet and deep and soft.

Sam pulls back long enough to say, "Off," and he works her jeans open. She gets up and slips them off, kicking her shoes out of the way. She leans over him, kissing him and reaching for his belt and he helps her. She pulls him out, wraps her fingers around his cock and he groans deep in his throat, letting his head fall back. She slides to the floor and leans over, runs her tongue up his hard length from base to tip. He tenses, shaking a little, trying not to move too much. Then she takes him in her mouth, working him slowly with her tongue against the underside, sweeping the flat of it over the head on the upstroke, and he's just trying to breathe, it's so damned good.

He reaches for her when he's had all he can take, and she pulls off and climbs back into his lap. He slides his hand down her stomach, makes her shiver when he slips it between her legs and God, she's so wet. She shudders and he braces her with his other arm around her, leans his forehead against her shoulder. He dips his finger inside her, gathers the moisture there and slicks the thin skin with it, rubbing and circling until she moans and shudders. He lets his fingers slip further down, inside her, keeps working her with his thumb, hot and slick and shit, she feels so good. She's panting and digging her nails into his shoulders, until she finally cries out and flexes against his hand. Jesus—the sounds she's making; he's almost ready to lose it just from that.

The second she stops shaking he lifts her up and onto his cock, slides home with a groan, and she echoes it. He holds her to his chest and thrusts up into her, face buried in her neck. She's burning hot around him, tight and hot, and how did he go without this for so long, because oh shit, it's so fucking good. She's helping now, rocking and riding him and she starts talking in his ear, low and sweet—fuck, Sam…oh yeah, just like that…feel so good, and he's gone. His thighs lock for long seconds as he pulses inside her, shuddering and panting against her salty-sweet neck.

He's starting to come down when Kelly sits up enough to kiss him long and deep. He takes her face in his hands and keeps kissing her softly until she sinks back against him and he wraps her up in his arms, sits there holding her to him, running his fingers through her hair.

He never wants to move, but after a few minutes Kelly eases off him and they both get dressed. He's thinking he should go when Kelly pushes him gently back against the arm of the couch with a hand on his chest and settles in with her back against him. He puts his arms around her; there's no way he can't. They stay that way for a couple of hours, talking a little, but mostly just enjoying the comfort. Sam wants to just stop time right here for a while, make himself a little oasis in the middle of it all, but he can't make his brain stop thinking, wondering.

How the hell do I say goodbye?