MONDAY

Dean's eyes flutter open to the sight of Sam sleeping. He looks like he's been airbrushed by angels: hair all over the pillow and hanging in his face, his pink mouth is slightly parted, breathing slow and deep. Dean closes his eyes again for a second and soaks up the warmth pouring off of him. He's always so fucking warm.

The hand on Dean's chest is downright hot. The way Sam's legs are sprawled over his, it doesn't matter that the blankets are half off. It's so cozy and familiar that a red alarm goes off in Dean's mind like an air raid siren. 'Back away. Too close.'

Dean hears the advice he's giving himself and knows it's solid. He knows he should get up, take a leak, take a shower, and be dressed before Sam even wakes up.

He can't tear himself away from this sight, though. He sighs and wipes the hair from Sam's forehead. He kisses Sam's cheek and breathes in the last traces of that cologne as it blends with Sam's musk. He stirs slightly, and Dean kisses his smile. "Sleep good?"

Sam's answer is a low hum. Dean wants to curl up in that sound and die. He nudges Sam onto his back and crawls onto his wide chest. He slides down Sam's leg, rubbing against him and pressing his chest over Sam's wood. He nuzzles Sam's chest where the scent of him is even stronger and makes his way south to where it's sharpest of all.

Sam chuckles awake. He grabs both sides of Dean's head just before he takes a mouthful of his dick. "Hey. Wait. I have to go to the bathroom."

"Aw. You fucking spoilsport." Dean groans, rolls over onto his back and, grabs his dick.

"Good morning to you, too. I'll be right back." Sam hops up.

He dances to the can, picking up his feet as if the tiles are burning him, although they're probably ice-cold. While he's in the can, his phone rings.

Dean looks at the clock. 5:13 AM. He scratches his lip and eyeballs Sam's phone. His self-control is good, but it's not that good. He crawls over and peeks - UNKNOWN.

By the time Sam gets back, it has stopped, and Dean has to go.

It rings again while he's pissing. He tries not to hear - doesn't want to be like that - but it's a small space.

"Would you stop, please?" Sam answers quietly.

He always talks quietly, so that's no big deal. Dean ignores the twinge in his chest and flushes the toilet.

Re-entering the room, Dean's eyes flick to the phone. It's laying right back where it was when he left. "So, I ruined your plans; you decide what we do today."

Sam shakes his head, shoulders slumped like he's still tired. His spine straightens with a deep breath, and he holds his hands out for Dean. He scoots to the end of the bed so that he can capture him between his legs. "You didn't ruin my plans. You made this the best weekend of my life."

"Shut up." Dean pushes him, playfully.

"I'm not kidding."

"Then, you need to get out more," Dean says, although he can't think of a better one himself. "So, what are we gonna do?"

"Shower, 'cause you stink."

Dean confirms that remark with a sniff of his pits. It's not a lie. Sam clamps his mouth around his right nipple anyway. He swirls his tongue around it and plays with his balls until Dean's knees buckle. "Shit."

Sam's hand is firm against the small of his back. Dean will take it to his grave how much he loves that feeling - that huge hand on his back like Sam owns him. The fingers of Sam's other hand poke his hip. Dean looks down at the huge hickey he must have left last night. "Damn."

"Is your girl going to get mad?" Sam asks, and he's completely sincere.

Dean is about to correct him and realizes it's a perfect cover. It's a lifeline. If Sam thinks he's just another lay, let him. It's safer that way. Dean shakes his head.

"Good." Sam kisses the spot and reaches over onto the bedside table to pick up the stack of tourist brochures.

Dean slides onto the bed behind him, sitting close enough to gently hump his ass while Sam thumbs through the leaflets. Sam's palm closes around his thigh. "Who needs a puppy?"

"Funny." Dean clasps his arms around him.

His hands roam over Sam's lower abs, dick getting hard again as it slots up between his bare cheeks.

"All right there, Fido."

"Fuck you." Dean bites his shoulder.

"You clearly want to."

Dean smiles against Sam's shoulder and sidles up closer. Fuck these underwear Sam gave him. He slips himself out of the slit in the fabric and into the crest of Sam's ass.

"You horny little rabbit."

Dean laughs at that and doesn't stop grinding. He's getting close - muscles tightening, heart pounding in his ear.

"Come on, then." Sam tosses the pamphlets on the floor and grabs the lube from the bedside table.

The phone silently lights up instead of ringing this time. It looks like a mistake when Sam knocks it on the floor. Dean leans to pick it up. Sam catches his arm, places the lube in his hand and prostrates himself face down on the side of the mattress.

"Fuck." Dean crawls over him, over the bed to grab a rubber from his table. Sam snickers and waits.

Dean kicks off his briefs. Then he dribbles lube down Sam's crack and over his own dick.

"So messy," Sam gripes, peeking over his shoulder with a grin.

Dean smacks his ass with his left hand, rolling down the condom with the right. "Shut up. Do you need..."

"No. Go ahead. Just take it easy."

Dean bends his knees to align himself. It's a somewhat awkward position, but he's not going to complain while Sam is laid out like the greatest gift of all. Gripping himself at the base, he holds his breath and presses his tip to Sam's hole. "Sam, I'm gonna…"

"No. You're not." Sam reaches back for a handful of Dean's ass. "You're gonna fuck me. Right, baby boy? Don't you want to fuck me? Don't you want to come inside me."

"Oh, God." A wave of pleasure washes hot over him. He's already come, at least a little.

He doesn't usually have this problem. It's not like this is his first time or something. It doesn't matter. With Sam, all bets are off.

Dean pants like a racehorse and just manages to get the head of his dick in before he falls apart. He shudders and moans and feels like he's going to burst into a thousand pieces.

"It's all right, baby boy. You feel so good."

Dean whines and drops himself onto Sam's back. He loves/hates Sam's new pet name. He stays there, through the aftershocks, half in and half out of him. Sam cranes his neck for a kiss.

Dean lets it happen. Then he pushes off and peels off the rubber. "Fuck."

"Hey." Sam rolls over, dick limp.

Dean shakes his head and stalks into the bathroom. He starts the shower water, hops in and pulls the curtain shut.

Standing behind Dean under the spray, Sam kisses his shoulder. "I don't think I have any fluid left in my body right now."

His shoulders are so tense, but he doesn't move away or protest while Sam soaps his back.

Dean leans his head forward and lets the water drip down his face. "That your guy that keeps calling?"

"You're my guy," Sam says before he thinks wiser of it.

He ignores Dean's silence and the barb it leaves in his chest. Sam washes him, like he had planned to do. Inwardly, he curses himself for the outburst but is grateful, at least, that Dean doesn't openly refute him.

Sam scrubs Dean's hair, his neck, down and under both of his arms. Dean laughs and juts out his hips at that. Sam smiles and kisses his cheek over his shoulder. He washes his chest and slathers his cock.

Sam's fingers search over something strange under his scrotum. "Dean, what is this?"

While Sam assumes he already knows, he slips to his knees to have a look and be sure.

"Smooth." Dean slicks back Sam's hair. "I'm fast. I'm not that fast."

Sam's fingers remain in the same spot so he can properly examine.

Dean nudges his hand to the side and touches the bump himself. "What the hell is that?"

He widens his stance and leans forward as if he could see his own perineum.

Sam says, "Let me look."

"What the fuck?" Dean stands slightly more upright. "What the fuck, Sam?"

Sam confirms his suspicion. "Okay. Listen. Don't freak out."

"What the fuck?" Dean bends over and tries to look again.

"You have a tick."

"Aw, fuck." With his arms flailing, he stumbles backward out of the shower.

The shower curtain rips noisily from the rod. It envelopes Dean from head to toe as he careens wildly to the floor, still shouting. Sam shakes his head, turns off the water and watches Dean peel himself out of the vinyl. His feet slip on the tile, and he nearly falls again on his way through the door.

Sam chuckles, dries himself and wraps the towel around his waist. He steps out of the bathroom to find Dean curled in a wet, fetal ball on the bed. He peers up at Sam and moans, "How long?"

It's so adorable and pitiful; Sam almost feels sorry for him. He sits on the edge of the bed and strokes Dean's shoulder. "You're gonna be fine. You just need to let me take it off."

"Don't try to bullshit me, Sam." He sniffles. "I know people die from this shit."

Sam subdues his chuckle. "Nobody ever died from a tick bite, Dean." He raises his hips to take off his towel and dabs it gently over Dean's goosebumped skin.

Dean buries his face in the pillow.

"You might need to see a doctor, get some antibiotics, but you're going to be fine." Sam picks up the phone and calls down to the front desk for a first aid kit.

He runs his fingers carefully over Dean's scalp and behind his ears, as much to comfort him as complete the inspection. "Will you check me, too?"

Dean sits up, slightly. "There is a fucking tick on my dick, and you act like -"

"It's not a problem. Okay?" Sam runs a knuckle over his cheekbone and smiles.

He bows his head, offering himself. "Start at the top. Anything feels weird, you check it out."

It takes Dean a moment to get onto his knees and run his fingers over Sam's scalp. He closes his eyes and makes every inch of himself available.

By the time the knock comes on the door, they're both hard and writhing together on the bed. Sam clears his throat and extricates himself. He whips the towel back around himself, parts the door enough to accept the kit and say thank you.

An hour later, as Sam tucks his shirt into his pants, he says,. "You should let me take you to a doctor."

Dean shakes his head and scratches his crotch. "I'd rather die."

Dean rolls his eyes and gripes as he trudges behind Sam up the gangplank to the steamboat Aunt Polly. "Remind me to never let you pick again."

But he doesn't complain about the catfish. He moans around the first bite so loudly that Sam checks for spectators. Then he orders another filet and drinks about 4 cups of iced tea. The okra he slides to the side of his plate for Sam.

During the show, Dean shushes Sam not once but on three separate occasions. He laughs before and louder than anyone else. When the Mark Twain impersonator is finished, he walks right up to the guy and talks for nearly fifteen minutes before Twain sends Sam a glance that clearly reads: rescue me.

Sam steps up beside Dean and shakes the actor's hand. He slips away, and Sam smiles. "We dock in ten minutes. I take it you enjoyed this."

Dean shrugs. "It was okay. I pick the next thing."

"No, you don't."

His mouth falls open, but he doesn't protest.

"The family who owns this boat have something else I want to show you."

Dean wraps his arms around himself and takes deep, calming breaths.

"How high up are we?" Sam asks, closely watching how the pilot adjusts the ropes.

"'Bout fifty feet."

Dean moves to the middle of the basket just as his phone buzzes with a message from Jo.

JW: Hey. How's your weekend going?

DW: Mostly good. Crap right now. You?

JW: Bad time?

DW: Not the best. I'll see you tomorrow.

JW: K

The guy tosses another sandbag overboard. Dean flinches when he pulls the lever that sends an unholy fire belching up into the balloon.

"You should try to relax and enjoy it." Sam grins.

Dean seriously considers decking him. "This is basically a plane without the wings."

"It's nothing like a plane."

"If mankind was meant to fly, we'd have feathers."

The thing lurches. Dean bites his lip to keep from crying out. Sam, that asshole, leans over the side of the basket and waves at somebody below them.

Back on the precious ground, in the passenger seat of Sam's car, Dean scoots back and forth across the upholstery. It doesn't help. So, he has to take matters into his hands to relieve the infernal itch. He shudders just thinking of that thing sucking the blood from his ball sac. It makes Dean want to spend the rest of his life ridding the world of evil shit like that. Maybe he'll become an exterminator.

Sam smirks. "You okay over there?"

"Shut up." He hikes his foot on the dashboard to get a good angle and really digs into it. "Son of a bitch."

"You want to take a swim when we get back? Might be soothing."

"You making fun of me?"

"Not at all," Sam says, but he's fighting back laughter.

"Bitch."

Sam shakes his head. "Jerk."

Five minutes later, they pass a sign, and Dean's head snaps around to be sure he read it right. He shouts, "Pull over!"

Sam eases on the gas. "What?"

"Ah, you missed it. Now, you gotta turn around."

"What is it?"

Dean grins and rubs his hands together. "Trust me. Turn around."

Dean's eyes light up like he's entering the gates of Heaven. His mouth falls open as he gawks at the stuffed buffalo, all the many antlers and antique shotguns. It looks like the decorators have crammed in every item of kitschy cowboy paraphernalia that could possibly be mounted on the rough-hewn walls of a western themed restaurant/shooting range/karaoke bar.

Sam tries to unwrinkle his nose and returns the hostess' smile. She's dressed like Annie Oakley, complete with holster and 6-shooter. Sam scratches his jaw. The word reluctant does not cover how he feels about this place.

The second they're seated, Dean hops up and goes to chat with the bartender. Sam scoffs, assuming he's trying to wheedle his way into some alcohol. Dean returns and reports that karaoke doesn't start until 9:00.

Sam consults with his watch and his stomach sinks. That means Dean expects to stay here for at least another 90 minutes.

"I'm gonna go talk to Larry." Dean nods towards the billiards tables.

"Larry?"

Larry turns out to be the mechanical bull. Sam covers his mouth and shakes his head. When the things starts out, Dean's body undulates back and forth in a gentle roll that causes Sam to search the room before he adjusts the tight fabric over his crotch. It takes no time at all for him to swallow hard and look away from Dean's body jerking back and forth, his neck appearing on the verge of snapping like a twig.

Sam makes the mistake of peeking at other patrons whose eyes and mouths are wide in the terror. When Sam looks again, Dean's hand is in the air as he's whipped about like a rag doll. Sam holds his breath, winces and waits for the kid to go flying and crash to the mat again any moment.

Every time Dean is thrown, he bounces up with both hands raised, like he's defeated the thing. The whole bar cheers and claps - probably because Dean spends five minutes before every round beating his chest and prancing around the ring.

After the third toss, he staggers back to the table, like a drunkard with a smug grin on his face. Sam slides his root beer across the table. "30 seconds. That's probably a world record."

Dean leans in to whisper. "Judge me if you want. It helps with the itching." He winks, drains his drink and slams it on the table. "Since you're paying, let's shoot."

Sam sighs and starts to stand.

"Bring your drink." Dean sticks his nose in it. "What is this? Sprite?"

"Seltzer water. You want some?"

Dean winces as if Sam had said lighter fluid. "Jesus, Sam. You're killing me. The least you could do is drink for the both of us." He raises his hand to show off the cowboy hat stamped onto the back which prohibits him from ordering anything harder than A&W.

Sam sinks all ten of his bullets in the target's head or chest. He's been shooting since he could hold a weapon. His father saw to that.

Dean nods and huffs his approval. Then, he takes the rifle. "You know what this is?"

"Winchester 1894."

Dean's expression shows that he's impressed. It sends an inexplicable flush of pride through Sam, as if he lives to impress this kid.

Dean lines up his sight and shoots a round through every one of Sam's marks. He laughs at Sam's flustered reaction and leaves the range. "I'm going back on Larry."

Sam watches Dean swagger across the room and notices that he's not the only one doing so. This burly, thick-necked trucker type tilts his head to check out Dean's ass. It sets off a flare in Sam's chest. He inhales sharply, nodding, reminding himself that 'people are allowed to look.'

As soon as they make the announcement for karaoke, Dean slides out of the booth, grinning. He comes back with a laminated song list. "I signed you up."

"No, you didn't."

"Come on." Dean chuckles.

"Not… ever." Sam shakes his head and sips his drink.

Dean folds an entire mozzarella stick in his mouth and asks around it, "Dare me to sing Dolly Parton?"

"I'm not daring you to do anything." Sam dips up some salsa with his chip.

Dean hoots and claps for every single awful singer that takes the stage. He eats like it's the Last Supper. When they finally call 'Dean BonJovi,' his smile grows impossibly bright. He leans over. "Last chance. Any requests?"

"Don't embarrass me."

He laughs on his way up, peels the mic out of the clip and points a finger right at their waitress. "This one goes out to Sherry, y'all. Tip her extra. She's beautiful. And she's got two little kids to put through college."

Dean doesn't just sing Donna Summer's 'She Works Hard For the Money,' he prances across the stage, dancing in a way that would make Mick Jagger proud or jealous or sick to his stomach. Sam covers his face with both hands, but he can't stop smiling.

When the song ends, he's just another one of Dean's adoring fans. The kid struts back to the table, nodding at the men who clap him on the back. He winks at the women who leer like they're thinking of tossing their panties at him.

He slides into the booth across from Sam and raises his brow, awaiting critique.

"You're an exceptionally bad singer. Like, painful."

Dean throws his head back and laughs. He devours the last of his potato skins.

There are only nine people on rotation, which means an hour later, Dean is up again. His second song is a rousing massacre of Sinatra's 'My Way.' For that, he earns a standing ovation from the drunkards at the bar.

When he gets up for his third round, Sam announces, "I'm getting pretty tired."

He's also completely fed up with the muscle-head at the bar who keeps ogling Dean. The kid doesn't seem to notice or at least, he hasn't acknowledged the guy in any way. Sam can't help wondering whether he's aware and just ignoring it. If that's the case, he doesn't know how Dean can stand it. Then again, Dean doesn't exactly mind being the center of attention.

He nods. "Last one."

He climbs onto the stage and steps over the microphone stand so that it hangs between his legs. "I wanted to get my buddy up to sing with me. He's getting sleepy, so we're about to be out of here. Sammy, this one's for you."

The singing is as bad as ever, but the way he moves while he screeches Foreigner's 'Hot Blooded' gets Sam hot and makes him nervous and gives him new understanding for why Elvis infuriated people. Dean is basically fucking the microphone stand.

Sam empties his seltzer, pays their waitress and tries not to watch the mouth breather salivating over Dean's antics. More than anything, Sam wants to yank that kid from the stage and put him in a freaking burqa.

Dean takes his final bow to foot stomps, cat calls, and applause. He soaks it in and bows at the waist. Then he speaks into the microphone while looking right at Sam. "Going to use the can."

A few people laugh at the announcement. The guy at the bar doesn't wait a full two seconds before he stands and stalks toward the bathroom behind Dean.

Sam's heart beats out of his chest. He stands and moves in that direction, as well. He's so wound up that the small hand on his shoulder startles him. Apparently the look on his face startles the waitress. She jumps back. He apologizes. She apologizes. Sam looks over his shoulder in time to see the bathroom door closing.

"Your change."

"Keep it." He turns and sprints toward the bathroom, so narrowly focused that he knocks a tray of drinks out of another server's hands.

Dean doesn't even look up at the thick-necked, pro-wrestling looking mother fucker who's been watching him all night like Dean was a horse he had put his entire paycheck on. Dean's overheard people calling him Gunner all night.

Dean gives his junk one last scratch and zips up his pants. "Help you, dude?"

Gunner takes a step forward. The guy is 6'2" 250 lbs, easy. "Nobody gives a shit what you do elsewhere. We don't allow that faggotry here. I want your word that you and your 'buddy' won't come back here or we're gonna have a problem."

Dean's heart beats triple time against his ribs. "You're gonna wanna back the fuck up off me."

If the whole thing had been happening in slow motion, Dean could say he saw the sucker punch coming straight for his temple. But he didn't see it. The air changes slightly before some shit's about to go down. Dean has had enough shit go down that he has a sixth sense for it.

It's not like the Matrix or anything. He just knows it's coming and dodges. Gunner's fist barely brushes the back of Dean's head before he jabs the fucker in the throat and gouges his eyes. The Marx brothers make that shit look funny. Gunner ain't laughing.

Dean's not sticking around to ask how it feels either. He leaves the bathroom, walking fast, praying Sam is near the exit. Turns out, Sam is right outside the door, smelling like he took a beer bath, and breathing hard. Dean walks right into his wet shirt. Sam's arms close around him. "You all right?"

"Awesome. Let's go."

They are nearly out of the saloon doors when a voice behind them growls, "Chris. Stop them!"

The bouncer steps in front of Sam. He's every bit as tall and maybe twice as wide, the kind of guy you want on your defensive line - not in your face. Dean swears and looks back over his shoulder as Gunner barrels over, squinting. "This little fairy jumped me and stole my wallet."

"Ain't what happened, Chris." Dean tries to reason with the bouncer.

"How long I been coming here? Check him." Gunner puts his hand on Dean's shoulder.

Dean puts Gunner on his back. Now, his heart is on overdrive, and everything else is in slow motion.

Chris makes a move, but Sam would make a pretty good blocker, too. Somebody grabs Dean and he's fighting blind as Sam takes a hit to the gut. Someone, not previously involved, jumps onto Sam's back. He staggers forward just as Dean is struck in the jaw. It stuns the hell out of him. His swing connects, though. A few guys gang up on Dean. He kicks one of them in the knee. That guy yelps and crashes forward. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a chair come down over Sam's shoulders. Unlike on television, it does not burst into splinters. It looks like it hurts. Sam slumps forward, but still doesn't go down. A fist connects with Dean's proud smile. He stumbles back a few steps. Hands close around his throat. A waitress cracks someone over the skull with a bottle of beer. Gasping for air, Dean kicks back, peels at the fingers on his windpipe. He steps back and knocks the person behind on him against the wall. Nothing works. His vision starts to blur.

Then, suddenly the hands are off his neck. He gulps in a breath, clutching his aching throat. Dean gets in two solid kicks to whoever is on the floor before Sam drags him out of the door.

Adrenaline rushing through him like a narcotic, Dean hangs out of the window and hollers. Sam looks nervously over his shoulders. When it's clear that Yoko can outrun whatever piece of crap Gunner's driving - especially when Sam punches it like he's doing now - Dean slaps the roof of the car and slides back into his seat. He laughs and punches Sam's arm.

Sam's brow is all wrinkled, lips pursed with worry. It would kill Dean's buzz if he let it. Heart rate slowing, he slaps his own knee. "Holy shit, man. That was awesome. You see that guy?"

"We need to talk about this," Sam says, shaking his head. "There's something about you. You attract... you attract creepy guys."

"You think that guy…" Dean jerks a thumb back towards the bar. "He was trying to fucking kill me. Are you're saying this is my fault?"

"That's not what I said." Sam's voice is low, eyes on the road, hands clutching the hell out of 10 and 2.

He's obviously shook up, but Dean's not going to let him off that easy. "That's exactly what you said."

"It's not what I meant."

"Well, then, say what the fuck you mean." And maybe Dean is still a little hyped from the fight. Maybe he's cruising for another one.

"I mean…" Sam mumbles, "I don't know what I mean."

"You think I draw too much attention to myself." Dean fills in the blank for him, body growing tenser by the second.

"Yeah."

Jody says the same thing. 'Why can't you just blend in and stop drawing attention to yourself?'

"And you think that you're one of these creepy guys I attract."

Sam shrugs. "Shoe fits."

"So, should I join a monastery and you be castrated. Or vice versa. That part isn't clear."

Sam sighs and glances at him. "I think we could both stand to examine -"

"Shut up."

His voice quakes. "...ourselves … to determine -"

"Shut up, Sam."

Sam's breath hitches. "...whether we -"

"Stop it." Dean grabs his hand. "Please. That guy was not a suitor, okay? He was just a dickhead."

Sam squints at him and then raises his hand to Dean's lip. "Look at your face."

It stings, but Dean doesn't swat him away. He grins, and that stings a little, too. It never hurts in the moment. Always after. Dean leans up on one hip and pulls the wallet from his back pocket.

"Is that …"

"Gunner, my ass. George Lambert." Dean tosses the guy's ID out of the open window.

He helps himself to the cash and flings the wallet out onto the side of the road. Sam snatches the cash from Dean and tosses that out of the driver's window. "You need anything, you come to me."

Dean turns and watches the dollar bills flutter out behind them and disappear into the darkness.

The concierge's eyes pop saucer-wide as they stumble into the lobby.

Sam leans as little weight as possible on Dean's shoulder, but accepts the support. An older woman who was checking in moves behind her husband and clutches the white pearls at her neck.

"We were mugged," Dean answers the unuttered question on all of their faces.

"Do you need an ambulance?" The woman behind the counter already has the phone in her hand.

"No!" Sam grunts, "Thank you."

"Would you like a first aid kit?"

"We already have one." Dean grins and ushers him to the elevator.

Once the door slip closed behind them, Dean looks up at Sam and slides his hair behind his ears. Sam leans back, lets his head fall against the steel wall. "Did you see that woman?"

Dean laughs bitterly. "Never had anybody look at you like that before, have you? I should have finished the fantasy for her, snatched that necklace right off her wrinkly throat."

Sam shuts his eyes, suddenly so exhausted.

"I used to run around with these Dominican kids. You should have seen the way people looked at us, like we were fucking werewolves or something."

Sam's chest heaves in and out, but he still can't catch his breath. "Should we go home? We should go home."

The tiny space seems to tilt. The elevator dings. The doors slide open. Sam takes three steps before he drops to his knees on the floor. He stares at his shaking hands. He hears Dean's voice, has never been this close to his shoes.

The next thing Sam knows, he's emerging from the other end of a tunnel, looking up into the most beautiful, moss-colored eyes.

"Dude."

Sam tries to stave off the wave of emotion by biting his already injured lip. It's like resisting the undertow. He drops his chin to his chest and sobs. "I'm sorry. I … don't know what's wrong with me."

Between his humiliation and the fresh awareness of pain flooding his body, Sam closes his eyes and wishes he could sink into the floor. Dean slides down beside him and helps him lean against the wall. He drapes an arm over Sam's shoulder, rocking gently. It's so kind and unexpected, all Sam can do is accept it and cry himself out.

When he's finally dry, he shakes his head pitifully, utterly drained.

Dean carefully uses his thumb to draw down Sam's lower eyelid. He searches as if he's medically trained to handle situations like this. "When's the last time you were in a fight?"

"I don't know." Sam sighs. "High school, I guess. Some kids got pissed after they lost. That's the only one I can remember."

Dean pats his cheek and smiles. "I once saw this kid get three teeth knocked out with a cinder block. He kept fighting until the ones that jumped him ran off. Then, he fucking collapsed, pretty much exactly the same thing and I know for a fact that his dad kicked his ass on a daily basis. Just, sometimes… At least you didn't shit yourself. Some guys do when they fight."

A woman emerges from one of the rooms and practically presses herself against the other wall to walk around Sam's outstretched legs.

"She probably just thinks you're a junkie." Dean laughs and pats Sam's chest. "Whenever you're ready, man. I can't carry your ass back to the room."

Sam manages a light chuckle. "It's the adrenaline. Side effects."

Dean nods. "Yup."

"You get off on this? 'Cause I feel like shit."

"I'm used to it." Dean shrugs. "Never had much of a crash afterward. Some do, some don't."

After a few more minutes, Dean helps Sam into their room. He retrieves the red box from beside the bed. Opening, he nods his approval and starts laying things out on the kitchenette table with a precision Sam has not yet seen him display anywhere other than on the field.

"Ok. We're going to clean you up, bandage what we can. It always looks worse than it is. Since you're a fainter, we're going to hold off on the shower."

"I'm not a fainter."

"OK, well, you fainted, which… is usually what fainters do, so..." He unpacks an alcohol pad and dabs it over Sam's eyebrows.

The fumes burn his eyes and the liquid stings cold against his cut. Sam watches Dean's face as he continues to talk and patch him up.

"I'm not judging you, man. There have been times I fucking wished I could faint. Besides, you get in a few more of these, it'll be like a trip to the zoo."

"No, thanks," Sam slurs and yawns.

"Well, you're a damn good fighter. Kicking ass with a guy on your back. Not bad." Dean chuckles. "Did you learn that military ninja shit from your dad? You got to show me some of that someday."

From the time he could walk, Sam's father had subjected him to a toddler version of basic training. It got more intense over the years and had only stopped when he went away to college. John Winchester always a said a man has to know how to defend himself. Sam had never had any interest in fighting, but he did what his dad wanted to keep the peace.

"You know how I learned how to fight?" Dean asks. "Fighting. Mostly sons of bitches who wanted to knock me out. Not for this shit. That's just ignorant."

Sam keeps quiet, listening more to the sound of Dean's voice than his actual words. Thinking back over the fight, he recalls in surprising detail. Dean's right, he had been under attack on multiple fronts, likely because of his size. What he remembers most vividly is constantly trying to keep his eyes on Dean while dealing with the onslaught. The kid brawls like a wildcat, throwing his elbows and kicking more than swinging punches.

Sam had never been so frightened in his life. It's no wonder that his adrenaline level had spiked so high and subsequently crashed so low. He hadn't been afraid for himself, though.

Even now, the idea that something much worse than a few scrapes and a busted lip could have happened to Dean rattles Sam to the bone. He shudders and curls his fingers around Dean's hip to drag him into a bruising kiss. It's as much pain as passion as the blood mingles salty-sweet between their wounded mouths.

Dean clears his throat and laughs. "Okay. You're not in pain?"

"Yeah, I am." Sam chuckles. "I just wanted to... do that."

Dean nods, smirking. "Yeah. I like you, too."

"I'm pretty far past that at this point," Sam admits, his face warming to match the heat in his chest.

The kid titters and diverts his eyes to the abrasions on Sam's hands. "How much did you drink tonight?"

With his uninjured left hand, Sam cups his face. Dean blinks a few times and finally meets his eyes. He tries for a smile that deflates the moment Sam speaks.

"I'm crazy about you."

A series of indiscernible emotions flit over Dean's face. His eyes widen, brow furrows, nose wrinkles before he finally ends in such obvious discomfort that Sam snickers lightly before he whispers, "I think, I… um, I love you."

Dean winces and backs away, though just a step. He swallows hard and takes a deep breath. "That's not what you say after a fight, man."

"Okay. I hate you?"

His guarded scowl breaks into cautious laughter. "Better."

Despite the bite of pain, a smile blossoms over Sam's cut lips as he pulls Dean close and presses their foreheads together. "I hate you, a lot."