The real shitty thing about manticores, Dean quickly discovers, is that they devour their vics whole. No distinctive handprints, clawmarks, or flashes of light. Not even the damn courtesy to leave a couple scraps of bloodstained fabric behind, and come the fuck on.

On the upside, Sam- who has two bits of toilet tissue stuffed up his nose to stem the bleeding, and that's kind of gross and kind of adorable- says they're kind of hard to miss. That's the upside of creatures with lion bodies, human heads, and shark teeth. 'We're lucky, actually. A few years back, they were only ever seen in India.'

'What changed?'

Sam's smile slips a little. Since Dean hauled him out of the bathroom and made him take a nap he's been pale, a little woozy-looking, but still basically functional. Dean's almost tempted to leave him behind when he finally locates a manticore, but he knows how dumb a move that would be- Sam may not be feeling so hot, but he's Dean's number one source of information.

Right now he's tapping away at the laptop keys, determinedly not looking at Dean while he answers. 'Some crap happened. Three years ago. After that, everything got kinda out of whack. Lamias in Wisconsin, okamis in North Dakota. Shifters turning regardless of the moon. Never really got straightened out.'

'Jesus,' Dean says. 'What the hell happened?'

There's a silence. Sam stares at the screen, then up at Dean. 'I screwed up,' he says, and his tone is open and noncommital.

Old Dean, he knows, would have left it there.

He is not Old Dean.

'You gotta give me more than that,' he says.

Sam had to have known this was coming, because he squeezes his eyes closed. 'Dean, man.'

'You can't keep me in the dark about this shit. You're ill.'

His brother flushes. Embarassed. 'I'm fine.' Then, louder, 'You wouldn't believe me, Dean.'

'You haven't tried, Sam!'

Livid pink blotches appear high up on Sam's cheekbones. He shuts the laptop and for a second Dean thinks he's about to walk out, but instead he says, 'Look, Dean, I'll call up a few other hunters. See if they've heard of anything that might fit the bill, okay?'

Dean ignores him, staring at the table. He ignores Sam's little pained exhale. He also ignores how Sam stumbles when he gets up too quickly. His body is primed to act as a safety net, but he tamps down the protective urges with an ease that should probably worry him.

For the next few hours, Dean hunts through old lore books for how to kill manticores. Trouble is, they're rarely mentioned, and usually only in conjunction with other creatures. He keeps at it, though, and begins to painstakingly compile a list of possibles. Some say you stab it in the mouth. Some say you stab it with a silver blade blessed by a rajpurohit; some say it can be killed by nailing it to a temple ceiling and burning it alive.

One book says you kill it by beating it to death with an eggplant.

He looks round to tell Sam, just for kicks, before remembering- Sam vanished off somewhere to make calls.

He knows Sam is in his room. Sam's room is very close by. His door might even be open.

Dean lets himself imagine it anyway.

He could go in there, lean against the doorway, just take in the sight for a minute. Sam would be lying full-length along his stomach, tapping away at that damn laptop, and Dean would, for a second, have an uninterrupted view of that tight little ass.

Then Sam would register his presence, turn onto his back, smile. Scrape hair out of his eyes. 'Hey, Dean.' A normal greeting, and what Dean would do next would come as a shock- when Dean covered the room in a bound and pressed his lips to Sam's, reliving the feel of them, soft and a little chapped, already bitten. And Sam would respond, opening to him, their tongues twining and fingers tangling together as Dean crawled over him, Sam suckling on Dean's lower lip, Dean gripping Sam's jaw.

After that was a jumbled array of images and sensations. Sam's breath warm over Dean's nipple. A hand on his slick cock, jerking him fast and dirty, fingers tangling in his pubic hair. Dean taking his brother in his mouth, sensations punching desperate noises from him, pinning his hands behind him as he sucked him all the way down. Sam, spreading his ass open for his brother, and Dean working a couple of lubed fingers in with a filthy squelch. Lining up, ready to press in.

And, God, the sounds wrung out of Sam.

Dean comes to sitting at the desk with his own hand on his rock-hard cock, seconds from shooting all over the bunker floor.

He feels sick, and also kind of defiant.

SPN SPN SPN

After he goes and jerks off properly, in the bathroom, trying to summon up memories of faceless women, Dean goes back to the library, cool as you please. It's empty still. He goes over to Sam's room- the door is closed, thank fuck, so there's a good chance Sam didn't hear Dean's little session earlier.

He pushes the door open soundlessly, and his stomach lurches at what he sees. Sam is lying exactly the way Dean envisioned, ass unconsciously on display, hair falling forward over his face. He's typing fast, and doesn't see Dean for a second; it's surreal, Dean's heart pounding.

It gets even more surreal when Sam rolls onto his back, propping himself on his elbows, and Dean almost, almost thinks that the world loves him for once, that his wish is actually happening. He takes a stuttered step forward. He can't touch Sam. He must get his hands all over Sam. This can't be happening. It is happening.

Then Sam begins to talk, and the illusion shatters.

'Hey, man, I was just going to come get you. Listen- I've been through pretty much every contact in the book- most of them have heard of manticores, some know the basics, but they're pretty damn rare. However.'

'Why do I get the feeling we could use that Bobby guy right now,' Dean deadpans, surprised by the normalcy of his tone.

Sam cracks a sad smile.

He traces a pattern on the comforter for a second, eyes sad, and Dean has to say 'Go on.'

Sam does. 'Yeah. Sorry. Um- this one hunter. I got his number from another hunter- we helped her out a few years back, and she thought this guy could help us. Anyway, turns out he's killed one.'

Suddenly Dean's alert. 'Killed one? Killed a manticore?'

'And-' Sam holds up a finger- 'that's not all. Man, you don't need any special crap for this. No rituals, no Shinto priests. Apparently you can shoot them with plain old iron rounds- that's what this guy did.'

'That sounds way too good to be true, little brother,' says Dean, but his heart is thumping.

Sam grins, shaking his head. 'That's what I thought. So I rung up this guy's hunting buddy. He was there and he swears it's true.'

For a second Dean allows himself to think they're going to be okay. Then he says, 'We still need to locate one.'

But Sam's grin has spread.

He reaches under the comforter for a notebook and passes it to Dean. It's crammed with shitty handwriting that Dean assumes is Sam's, and it looks like- Jesus, it looks like instructions for a spell.

He looks up and says, 'Is this what I think it is?'

Sam's face will break apart any second now.

'A locating spell,' he says happily. 'We've got a locating spell, Dean. It's gonna be fine. It's all gonna be fine, Dean, I swear.'

Dean's got a bad feeling in his gut. He smiles, for Sam, because those huge eyes are impossible to deny; he's humouring him like a little child, he realises after a second, and with that thought any embarassment and frustration vanishes, replaced by a kind of careful affection. Sam is fragile. Dean sees. He sees and he pries the notebook from unresisting fingers, pushing Sam back down onto the covers, closing the laptop. He can't bring himself to run his fingers through Sam's hair.

'What'cha doin?' his brother mumbles, turning over to bury his face in the pillow, and God.

'S'okay,' Dean says. 'You're exhausted. Get some sleep.'

'The spell.'

'I'll handle the spell. Sleep, Sam.'

He's out like a fucking light.

SPN SPN SPN

It takes Dean a while to locate all the crap he needs for the spell, but it's all in the bunker- everything from tarragon to seal blood to plain old human blood. When he sets the map on fire, the sudden heat and whoosh of flames sends him a step backwards, and he's briefly convinced he did it wrong somehow.

But the map burns away, leaving behind a tiny scrap- and right in the centre is some town in Minnesota.

One manticore currently in the US, then. Just one. They need to move fast; the things are about as smart as they're inconspicuous, and it'd be too easy, assuming they can be killed like humans can, for another hunter to beat them to it and nail the monster. Dean doesn't like their chances of browsing hippie stores for manticore eyes.

He does the packing- partly because he feels safer knowing where everything is, and partly because Sam clearly needs rest. Once again, Dean considers leaving Sam behind. Ill, he'll only slow the hunt. But Dean needs him to supply the memories- and anyway, Sam'll probably be better within a couple days, and then he'll be an asset.

Duffle over his shoulder, Dean marches down to Sam's room again. This time he's genuinely taken aback.

Both Sam's hands are fisted in the sheets, but he's curled in on himself in a shuddering ball. 'No. No no no no no no. You can't h-have me, not again, I won't let you, not again. No no no. Dean? Oh, God. Oh, God.'

Dean has no idea what to do. He stands in the doorway and watches as his curled-up brother tugs on his hair. Watches a tear drip off the end of Sam's nose. 'N-no, you can't have me. He won't- he won't let you. He won't. Please. I beg of you. Beg of you. I- oh, God-'

Dean's shaking him awake by now, started trying to when Sam said 'He won't let you.' Slapping does nothing to pull him out of it, and Sam is crying now, little shivery noises. 'No no no no no. Please.' Dean's heart feels like it went through a juicer. This has to stop now, so he does the only thing he can think of: he grabs Sam's wrist and twists it.

He doesn't break the delicate bones, he knows what he's doing, but it has the desired effect; Sam bolts upright with a shout of pain. After a moment his eyes finally focus upon Dean. Some part of Dean expects Sam to be pissed; it's worse. He looks wary, and he cradles his tender wrist protectively to his chest.

'I didn't know what else to do,' explains Dean.

Realisation makes Sam a little less tense. 'I had a nightmare, huh?'

'That happen a lot?'

He nods, not meeting Dean's eyes.

Something in Dean's chest twists. He has an urge to wrap himself around Sam, to touch his hair and kiss his temples.

Instead he says, 'C'mon, Sasquatch. We gotta hit the road.'

Sam stares at him for the barest second. Then he wipes his eyes with his sleeve like a little kid, gets carefully off the bed, and follows Dean unsteadily out.

Dean's starting to realise that Sam will always follow him.

SPN SPN SPN

Things feel far better when they're out on the road at last; clearly the curse hasn't impaired Dean's sense of direction, because he knows the way to Minnesota. Sam's huddled up in layers of jackets, but he seems to gradually unhunch as the miles curl past, sitting straighter, smiling more. Dean finds a box of cassette tapes by his foot and is ready to scoff before he sees the tentative hope in Sam's eyes; he says nothing, but slides in a tape labelled BLACK SABBATH. Paranoid blasts out, and Sam looks away. Dean wonders if he's crying.

'So talk to me,' he says after a while. 'Minnesota. We ever work a case there?'

Sam thinks, then seems to start a little. 'Yeah, actually. A few times.'

'Spill,' says Dean, when it doesn't appear that Sam's going to continue.

'Um, okay. Well- this was some eight years back. We'd just started hunting together again. I was still a kid, you know? And you were like- like if anything even looked at me funny-' Sam breaks off. 'So we were in this bar one night. You were out to have fun, y'know, so when I left, you stuck around. Anyway- I'm out in the parking lot, and then my feet just go under me, and that's all I remember.

'I wake up in a- in a cage.'

Dean tenses.

Sam tells the story. He speaks of a little girl, no more than twelve, and her family of psycho rednecks. He speaks of the guy, Alvin Jenkins, and of his screams minutes after he escaped. He speaks of a yard filled with rusty cars, a jar of human teeth, and a policewoman called Kathleen, someone he's always wanted to thank.

And he speaks of Dean as if he's a hero.

He speaks of Dean as if he's gone.

SPN SPN SPN

When Sam finishes, Dean's hands are clenched hard around the wheel. Sam didn't tell the tale as a sob story, but as one of everyday life. Dean isn't sure he wants to go to Minnesota now. They put Sam in a cage.

Dean can't imagine Sam ever hurting anyone.

'That's ridiculous,' he says when Dean tells him. 'Dean, I've hurt more people than I could ever possibly make up for, I promise you.'

'Oh, yeah? And how many people have I hurt?'

'Let's not argue.'

'Sam. For fuck's sake.'

'Look, Dean-' Sam breathes in. 'Let's not, okay? Not now. I know I said I'd tell you, and I will. But just let us have this, man.'

'But-'

'Please.'

Dean gives in. Of course he does.

'So come on, buddy. I want stories. Regular cases we've worked.'

Sam's face relaxes into a relieved grin.

'See if you can jog my memory,' says Dean.

SPN SPN SPN

Sam tells him stories for hours. He tells him about the shifter in St Louis. He tells him about the Pagan gods who tried to sacrifice Dean in a fertility ritual. When Dean finds that bewildering, Sam grins and tells him about a case they worked at Christmas this one time, which involved fingernail-pulling and evergreens. A couple of times, he makes Dean laugh so hard it hurts.

After the second time, Sam sits and watches him pensively.

'What?' says Dean, kind of peevish.

But his brother gives a sheepish grin. 'Nothing, man.' He seems to sober after a moment. 'It's just- it's weird, you know, this is weird.'

'Yeah, 'cause your life is completely fuckin' normal.'

'No- no. I just mean- you're you. But you're not you. You have your voice. Your mannerisms, but different. God, Dean, you almost- almost remind me of that shifter. No no no, I know it's you- but you're- I don't know- you're colder.'

'What's that s'posed to mean?'

Sam scrubs a hand over his forehead. 'You just are. You look at me differently. I don't know.'

Dean frowns. 'How'd I used to look at you?'

When Sam doesn't answer, he says, 'Tell me another story, c'mon.'

So Sam tells him about the time they beheaded Paris Hilton, and something eases up between them.

SPN SPN SPN

Sometime around nine, they pull over at a diner. Sam's voice went croaky already; he's asleep, leaning against the window. Dean pulls his hair to wake him up, and Sam shoots him a glare. 'Why've we stopped?' He says through a yawn.

'For sustenance, kiddo.' Dean helps him out of the car.

The diner is brightly lit and understaffed. A tired-eyed waitress takes Dean's order. Sam, who still looks half-asleep, smiles weakly and says he'll pass, thanks. It's probably the fluorescent lighting that makes him look so pale- white like snow, icing sugar, sour milk.

'You should eat,' says Dean.

'I'd jus throw it up.' He sounds exhausted.

'What is this, anyway? Flu or something?'

Sam nods. 'Yeah, yeah. I'll be back to normal within a couple days, tops. I promise.'

'Well, I'm gonna need all the help I can get with this mantiwhatever, y'know.'

'I know.'

When Dean's burger arrives, Sam looks faintly queasy. After a minute, he slips away to the men's bathroom. Dean debates following, then tells himself not to be creepy. He tears into his burger; God, he's hungry. Sam slinks to the back of his mind.

When his brother does emerge, skin now with an awful chalky hue, Dean's sated and optimistic. Everything is going to be fine.

SPN SPN SPN

It's three in the morning when they reach the shithole Minnesota town where the manticore is. Dean's hungry again and his vision is blurring. They book in at the first fugly motel they see and Sam collapses face-down on the bed.

Earlier, Dean jerked off in a truck-stop bathroom, fantasizing about fucking Sam's face, twining silky hair between his fingers, feeling the flutter of soft throat muscles round his cock. God, it had felt wrong, knowing that Sam was ill and passed-out in the passenger seat at that very moment, but it was that or spend the rest of the journey half-hard.

Now he simply strips to his boxers and turns to his bed. He's all set to just dive in, but Sam is fully-clothed, completely out already, even his goddamn boots still on.

Dean takes a second to get himself under control.

Very, very gently, he unlaces and removes Sam's boots, then his socks, then his other socks, because apparently his legs are too ridiculously long for blood to reach their ends. He peels him out of his jacket and folds it up, then a thick plaid shirt. He hesitates, then; should he just leave Sam in jeans and t-shirt?

Telling himself it's for Sam, it's for Sam, he carefully rolls Sam onto his front. His head lolls back, exposing his long white throat, and Dean aches with the urge to nuzzle into it like an animal. He settles for tucking Sam's hair behind his ears; carefully, holding up his arms, he eases his brother out of his shirt. He tries not to see the expanse of torso, the faint dips between ribs, the moles and the wasted remnants of once-defined muscles.

He unbuckles Sam's belt and, hooking an arm around his waist, slides his jeans off. Sam has spaghetti legs, absurdly long and bony. There's something weirdly endearing about that that helps Dean push down the heat in his gut; he swallows, throat dry, and presses a single kiss to Sam's belly-button, just above the faint trail of hair.

Then he tucks his brother into bed, and he wonders if Old Dean would have done it any differently. He wonders if he cares.