So, a couple author notes here. First off, thanks very much to robby1925 for your review- that seriously made my day :) and secondly, this chapter contains explicit content. Not massively pornographic or anything but I'll toss that out there just in case.

-Dirigible

SPN SPN SPN

There's something off about this town, these people. He's sure Sam senses it too. Dean drums his fingers against the sofa. There's a teeny-weeny china cup dwarfed by his other hand, filled with tea- fucking tea- and he can feel the weight of his gun in his jacket, making it hang slightly off-balance.
Sam slept three hours past Dean earlier, sprawled on the bed in total surrender. Even when Dean finally shook him awake and thrust a coffee in his face he'd remained sleepy and pliant for the rest of the morning. Otherwise, though, he seems better; pale, but maybe he's always like that and Dean just doesn't know jackshit.
It's Sam who pastes on the looks of polite concern as they interview the locals house by house. They did all the research earlier; it's impossible to tell whether all the missing persons in Minnesota are missing because of this manticore or mantathing or whatever, or just plain missing. But there are more disappearances in this state than any other. Sam says they noticed that years back, with the Benders case (where they put Sam in a cage), but they'd never thought it could be something else too. Certainly not a creature fresh from Greek mythology.
'Agent? You with us?'
Sam. Dean must have zoned out. 'Yeah, Sa- Agent.' God, he can't get the hang of this. The sweet old biddy whose house they've invaded gives him a smile, all aren't-you-just-the-sweetest-thing, and he forces one back.
There's something going on here. It's more than a simple rampant monster case. These people should be panicked; they're cheery and hospitable. Even the ones who knew disappeared persons. It's giving Dean the willies. Everyone's falling over themselves to offer he and Sam cookies and coffee and invite them to BBQs and pimp them out to their nieces (no word of a lie, Dean swears the old lady they met earlier on tried to hook him up with her granddaughter). Sam had looked amused at Dean's discomfort, and said he was kind of shocked that Dean had turned the offer down (and, okay, judging by the pictures the granddaughter had been kinda hot, but just no).
But beneath the come-to-Jesus attitude, these people refuse to actually give them any information.
'So you're sure you've not seen anyone wearing half a lion suit recently,' Sam says earnestly to the woman.
She flashes a toothy smile. 'Oh, no, dear. And I've been out and about ever such a lot. Poor Jeremy needed his- oh, what d'you call them?- vaccinations- that's Jeremy sitting on the refrigerator- so I've been to the vet's five times. Or six times. And I went out grocery-shopping just yesterday-'
Any useful information.
He and Sam drive back to the motel in silence. It's already getting dark and he's wishing he'd got Sam to drive; he's had the beginnings of a headache all day, throbbing in his temple like a beating heart.
When they get back, Dean takes off his damn tie. Sam curls up on his bed, still besuited, as if he's about to go to sleep. Dean pokes him. 'Coming to the diner?'
'Nah.'
Dean frowns. He thinks back as far as he can. 'You sure about that, Sam?'
'Just wanna sleep.'
'Because when the hell did you last eat?'
Sam raises his head. 'Does it really matter? You go. I'm fine.'
'I thought you were getting over this flu thing. Or whatever it is.'
'Am.'
'Dude, you gotta eat.'
'Dean, just go, for God's sake. I'm staying here.'
He thinks about giving up and leaving. But he's pretty sure his old self would kick himself for that. His old, protective self, who tracked Sam right to this state to find him seven years ago. Dean can't possibly stand up to Old Dean in Sam's eyes, of course, but he can try and stop himself from being a total failure.
'Sam, you're coming with if I have to carry you out.'
'Like you could anyway,' Sam mumbles into the pillow, and Dean, well- he's only got one option after that.
He leans forward and hooks one arm under Sam's knees, the other behind Sam's shoulders. His brother tenses immediately, looking up, but doesn't struggle; Dean's surprised, actually. He'd been expecting more of a response.
But Sam just grins lazily. 'That the best you've got?'
The little fucker doesn't think Dean can do it. He's smiling as he hefts Sam up towards his chest, and Sam gives a weird little yelp and clutches at Dean's jacket. 'Dean, what the hell?'
'Sorry, kiddo, but you asked for it,' says Dean, grinning, and kicks open the motel door. 'Grab the keys for me, will you?' He motions to the Impala keys lying on a table, and Sam sticks out a hand to grab them. He's both ridiculously heavy and not as heavy as expected, but Dean can just about manage. Sam seems to actually be having the harder time here, both his fists hanging on to Dean's jacket until his knuckles are white. When Dean carries him outside, he actually buries his face in Dean's shirt. 'Dean, seriously, they all think I'm a damn fed. What the-?'
Dean just smirks down at Sam. 'Why so shocked, little bro?'
'I didn't think you were actually gonna do it,' Sam gasps, his face still hidden. He pulls away and looks up, glaring. 'Y'know, when this is all over I'm gonna do this to you.'
Dean grins, but all he says is 'Gimme the keys, Sam.'
Sam frowns. 'Your hands are kinda full.'
Breathing in long and low, Dean wriggles his upper arms. Then, in one smooth movement, he tosses Sam over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. Sam stifles his cry, and Dean feels fingers digging into his back. 'Oh my God, Dean-'
He gives Sam a friendly slap on the rump. 'Those keys, Sam? Today?'
Sam's swearing like a sailor, and maybe giggling a bit too, but finally Dean has the Impala opened. He bundles Sam inside and gets in.
His headache is gone and right now things actually feel kind of beautiful.

SPN SPN SPN

Things change once they get to the diner. Under the harsh lights, Sam looks like an overexposed photograph. Dean can almost see him wilting, hunching in on himself.
He puts a hand on his brother's thin shoulder.
'No,' he says. 'C'mon, Sam. Don't get like that, man.'
Sam frowns. 'Like what?'
'Y'know. You went all sad and soggy there for a moment. Seriously, do you need to get laid or something?'
'I'll pass.'
'I wasn't offering.'
Sam looks at him funny. 'I know you weren't.'
The waitress comes over to their table before that can go any further. It's a different girl to last time; this one has dark, coiled-back hair and large breasts, and she flashes white teeth at Dean as she takes down his order. She treats Sam less warmly. Sam orders a coffee, not displaying a flash of the charm Dean knows he possesses.
Impulsively he says, 'You know what- double my order.'
'You're sure hungry,' says Sam, amused, once she's gone.
'Ain't both for me, jackass.'
Sam just rolls his eyes.
When the food arrives, Dean pushes a burger towards Sam. 'C'mon, buddy. You can do this.' Christ, it's like he's a fucking coach.
Sam tries, he really does. He takes little bites and spends about a million years chewing, swallowing with obvious effort. It takes so long for him to eat half that Dean's been sitting there, plate empty, tapping his foot against the floor for the last fifteen minutes.
When Sam pushes the plate away, food still mostly uneaten, there's a thin sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. Dean's been bored and impatient for way too long, so he doesn't say anything.
When they're back at the motel, Sam makes a break for the bathroom. Dean catches himself rolling his eyes at the sounds of vomiting. He was prepared to baby Sam for a few days, but there's something not right here. Sam is still basically functional in a way that he wouldn't be if this so-called flu was as bad as the puking would suggest, right? But the nosebleeds and the inability to keep food down. The mental acuity that he's somehow managed to retain- it doesn't add up. Should he question him? Hell, would Sam-
Before Dean can follow his line of thought further, his vision slips.
It feels like no time has passed when he wakes up on the grotty carpet. Sam's slapping his face, saying his name in this little choked voice, and when Dean peels his face off the floor and opens his eyes he wonders if Sam is seriously going to hug him.
He doesn't, though, just keeps saying things like 'Dean, God, what the hell happened, I was so fucking scared, are you okay, I thought you were dead,' like that's the worst thing that can happen to a person.
'S'okay, Sam,' he grunts, and sits unsteadily up. 'Jesus fuck.'
His brother grabs his elbows and pulls him to his feet. This close, the height difference is more pronounced; Sam is willow. There's something breakable about him despite his broad shoulders. Dean is built shorter and jocklike, but still freaking tall. Sam doesn't loom over him, but it's a tilt-your-head-back-to-kiss situation.
It flashes across Dean's mind that he would have no problem holding Sam against the wall and fucking his brains out if the occasion called for it.
It's then that he realises he's sitting down, that Sam has steered him over to a bed (Sam's bed) and is hovering over him anxiously. Dean becomes aware that Sam just asked him a question. 'What?'
'The spell,' repeats Sam. 'Do you think it has side effects or something?'
It takes Dean a second to get what he's saying, and then he blinks. 'What? No.'
Sam opens his mouth to say more, but Dean cuts him off. 'Who the hell is Jo Harvelle?'
The motel door rattles with the force of the wind.
'Dude,' Dean says after a good fifteen seconds of Sam staring at him. 'What?'
Sam snaps out of it. 'Nothing. Um.' He rakes a hand through his wavy hair, drops to the bed next to Dean. 'Jo? You really remember... Jo?'
'Yeah, man,' he says. 'Look, I just- little skinny chick, easy on the eyes? Killer with a knife?'
His brother eyes him for a moment, then says, 'Yeah, that was Jo.'
'Was?'
'She, uh. Passed.'
Dean is not prepared for the gut-punch.
'Oh.'
'Yeah.'
'Fuck.' Then, when Sam is not forthcoming, 'When?'
'Three years.'
'That's... that's not a long time.'
'No,' says Sam, and looks away.
Seconds later, 'Dean,' and Sam draws in a sharp, shaky breath. 'I'm sorry. I'm really sorry.'
'What the hell for?'
Sam looks at him like he's crazy. He gesticulates wildly, seeming to encompass everything from the stained pillowcases to the alignment of the stars. 'This. Us. Our whole freaking lives. D-do you have any idea how- how bad I screwed things up yet? You've had a weird memory attack about Jo and about Bobby. Are you- do you remember me and- everything that happened? Or do you-'
He breaks off. Dean focuses on a strand of hair that has loosened itself from behind Sam's ear. It begs him to loop it round his finger.
'Dean,' says Sam. 'I just- I just have no idea how to handle this. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry.'
He sits back and rubs a hand distractedly through his hair for a moment before hunching over and disappearing into the bathroom.
'For the record,' Dean says to empty space, 'No. I don't fucking remember you. I have no goddamn clue if you're even who you say you are.'
Nobody answers. He exhales. For a moment he feels old.

SPN SPN SPN

The air in the room is warmed only by their breath.
Dean can't sleep. He's insistently half-hard, and normally he'd go jack off in the bathroom but he doesn't want Sam to wake up and hear him.
In quiet moments like these he can't help but probe through the emptiness that nestles in him. It is uncomfortable to have no memories; when he gets them back he'll be able to revel in the feeling, one that he'd probably never considered not taking for granted before (except he really has no clue whether he took it for granted before because he has no fucking memories). All he has are shadowy impressions of terror and horror and grief and, beneath that, a weird immutable warmth.

He wonders if the last part is Sam.
Sam, sleeping in the next bed.
He puts his hand on his cock, making no noise.
It's like he can feel every whorl of his own palm.
He feels like a predator as he slips out of bed. There's no other word for it. Following the warm sleep-scent of Sam, the faint imprint his snuffled breaths left in the atmosphere. He grins to himself on realising that his brother's feet hang off the edge of the bed, and he crawls on, a leg on either side of Sam's body.
He senses the exact moment Sam wakes, tensing.
'Dean?' a sleep-slurred voice asks. The question is unnecessary. Dean knows Sam knows the cadence of his lungs.
He reaches forward. It's pitch-black, but Dean's hand goes unfailingly to Sam's cheekbone, whisper-gentle, traces the faint scratchy-silk stubble and the soft skin beneath. Sam's breathing hitches. 'What are you doing?' he says, still whispering.
Dean sounds gruff when he speaks, harsh and low. Cutting through the fragile hush. 'Tell me to stop,' he says, tracing the sharp ridge of Sam's jaw.
That hitch again. 'Dean.'
'Yeah.' His hand, caressing with a tenderness that belies his voice, moves along the delicate tendons of Sam's neck. His calluses must feel strange against the soft skin. 'Tell me to stop,' he says again, and this time his own voice dips and wavers.
Sam tenses beneath his fingers, but says, 'No.'
Fingers skate down to the neckline of Sam's soft grey top, learning the lines of his collarbones, and back, fitting under powerful shoulderblades. Their mechanism is breathtaking. They shift and fold into place like wings.
And still his hands trace down. 'Tell me to stop,' he says. His voice is ragged.
And still Sam says, 'No.'
When he arrives at the elastic of sleep pants, moulding his hands to his brother's slim waist, he says 'Tell me to stop' and Sam, his voice a little higher, says 'No.'
So Dean does it. He slides his hand down smooth hot skin, under the waistband of Sam's boxers, grasps the slender length of his semi-hard dick. 'Tell me,' he orders, just once more, because how could he forgive himself otherwise, 'to stop.'
And still, still Sam says, 'No.'

Something breaks. One of them, both of them, the whole fucking universe.

With the first pull of Dean's hand, Sam lets out this wounded-animal noise. His hands clutch at Dean's elbows as Dean strokes him to full hardness, then begins jerking him off in earnest, wholly aware of the satiny skin in his hand, of Sam's head hanging forward enough for hair to brush Dean's forearms. Sam is tense, wound like a clockwork toy, and Dean must hardly be better, but then all the tension in Sam's body releases and he pitches forward, head buried in Dean's chest as he comes with a stifled whimper, and Dean rubs his back and rests his chin in his soft hair and just waits it out.
Afterwards, Sam is limp, woozy. His eyelashes tickle Dean's collarbone as he blinks. Dean releases him from his arms and is surprised when Sam's hands advance tentatively towards Dean's waistband, but he wraps his fingers round Sam's wrists and removes his hands gently.
Sam flops back and is asleep immediately. It gives Dean a twinge of guilt, and he can't help wondering if Sam was awake enough for rational decisions. He tugs Sam's pants and boxers off and cleans him off with a few tissues, still in the dark, then bundles his brother into another pair of boxers.
He tucks Sam into bed. Then he goes and jacks off in the bathroom, stripping his cock so hard it'll probably be raw tomorrow.
It's really kind of hard to care.
He has no idea what he's feeling.