Disclaimer: Buffy, Angel, and Supernatural belong to Joss Whedon, Eric Kripke, and other people who aren't me.

Pairings: Xander/Dean, side of Sam/Dawn, possibly others

Timeline: Post “Chosen” for BtVS; post “Not Fade Away” for Ats; post “Time Is On My Side” for SPN.

Warnings: Language. Graphic slash (eventually). Graphic het (maybe).

Summary: Sequel to Burn. Dean's deal edges closer to its due date, and Sam insists on dragging him back over the coals for help.

A/N: I really shouldn't be starting another story, but it tackled me and wouldn't let me up once I remembered the partially-written sequel was sitting there all neglected on my computer. Fair warning on sporadic updating. :)

- - - - - - -

It was relentless. Never changing and ever present, always sounding at the same intervals. Not slowing or speeding up, even if his mind played more and more tricks on him and said it was racing along too quickly, mistook his pounding heartbeat for that other sound when he thought too hard about it.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Always the same, only the perception of it changed, but that didn't really make it any better. Or any less terrifying.

But Sam didn't need to know that. Sam didn't need to know most of the shameful things playing in Dean's head these days.

What Sam did need was to shut the fuck up and take it back. Shove this crazy notion of his into a knapsack and drown it in a river.

“I said no, goddammit!” Dean shouted, whirling on his brother mid-pace to pin him with his fiercest, big-brother-is-boss glare.

Sam simply stood there with his hands shoved into the pockets of his faded brown jacket, looking infinitely put-out with him even as that underlying storm of panic that had been building for the past several months continued its whirlwind behind his dark hazel eyes.

“Dean,” he huffed exasperatedly, pulling a hand out to scrape through his hair as he gave a slight eyeroll that shifted his gaze to one of the cluttered bookcases. “We're running out of time, and we've gone through all of Bobby's books at least five times.”

Dean's chest heaved with anger and maybe a little bit of panic as he wiped a hand over his face. “Fuck, I know that,” he muttered irritably.

He knew better than anyone, could hear it ticking away louder than ever, but this... Sam was being stupid. Although he wouldn't admit as much no matter how many times Dean pointed it out. He just kept standing there, looking impatient and terrified, and Dean had a feeling Sam might club him over the head and stuff him in the trunk if he turned his back again, so he stayed put. Stood rigid with his fists clenched, staring his little brother down in the middle of Bobby's living room, ready for a fight. No way in hell was he doing what Sam was proposing.

Wasn't the first argument they'd had about this, but Dean had thought he'd drawn his line clearly the last time. Only, no, Sam was a stubborn bastard, same determined blood running through his veins as Dean's. And sometimes Dean forgot that Sam had inherited that extra ingredient of single-minded obsession from their father, surfacing with a demand for resolution when the situation called for it. He really hated the reminder.

Dean's steely green eyes glared; Sam's narrowed, locked, loaded, and refused to back down. Dean knew the firing of missiles was imminent if he simply continued his obstinate refusal and didn't give Sam something to work with, like a damn good reason. He had lots of those, but Sam didn't have quite the same perspective, didn't get it at all, and Dean was weary of trying to make him.

“Find something else,” Dean finally ground out, then chanced turning away so he could stomp into the kitchen, boots pounding loudly against the floorboards before he stopped to wrench the refrigerator door open with more force than necessary.

Dean snatched up a cold beer and slammed the door shut with a muffled jangling of glass jars and bottles protesting his rough treatment. He turned, pulled one of the creaking, wooden chairs away from the table, plopped down and popped the top, tipping the bottle back for a long swallow. He sighed in partial contentment before slamming the bottle down on the table with a sharp crack, his elbows following. He was throwing a little bit of a hissy fit, but he didn't fucking care.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Less than three weeks to go. Eighteen days, to be exact. He didn't want to die, really. He'd accepted Sam's resolve to help him, because Dean wasn't a moron, and he knew Sam would do it behind his back anyway, so he might as well give the okay so he could at least supervise and make sure there was no blatant disregard for the stipulations of the contract. Couldn't have Sammy dropping dead on him under any circumstances, period. He'd run up to the gates of hell screaming for them to let him in ahead of schedule first.

He didn't want to die, but he wanted to face this particular aspect of his past even less.

“It's only a big deal because you're making it one,” Sam's soft voice broke into his thoughts, causing Dean to look up from the scarred tabletop where he'd been running his fingers over the grooves and scratches.

Sam leaned against the door jamb, arms crossed over his chest, one tattered tennis shoe toeing at a raised bit of board as he sighed heavily and stared blankly at the floor. He was going to do the puppy-eyed bit now, Dean knew it just as well as he knew Sam had given him a few minutes alone in the kitchen so he could hang back and come up with this stupid scheme that was damn well not going to work.

Sure enough, Sam's head lifted, and there they were, pleading hazel boring into him from beneath the lopsided, floppy cover of his bangs, mouth twitching in concern.

“Oh, c'mon, Sammy,” Dean griped, turning his head away with a frown.

Sam knew he hated that shit being aimed at him. It was fine for other people, people they needed info from, but he was not allowed to betray his own family by turning his expressive arsenal on them. It was unspoken law that he disobeyed constantly. Mostly because he knew Dean had almost no immunity to it, awesome big brother that he was.

Which was why he refused to look at it as he chugged another mouthful of beer and returned his attention to the unintentional patterns on the tabletop.

Sam's feet shuffled across the floor as he made his way to a vacant chair and sat down across from Dean. Dean observed from beneath his lashes as Sam's arms came into view, hands clasped in front of him as he leaned over the table, a loud, tolerant sigh, and even without looking at his face, Dean knew he was wearing that diplomatic expression that suggested infinite patience was the solution of all of life's problems. Or at least all problems concerning Dean and stubbornness.

Except Sam was about as patient as any other Winchester when it came right down to it, so Dean just smirked to himself and resolved not to crack first.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Dean finished off his beer and scooted the chair back with a loud groan as it scraped against the floorboards. He liberated two more bottles from the refrigerator without leaving his seat and hop-scooted back to the table, sliding the extra bottle across to his brother, eyes carefully averted from shaggy-haired, puppy faces all the while.

Sam accepted it and took a drink, set his bottle down with slow, calculated movements that indicated he was scrutinizing Dean's hair follicles as that was the only portion of himself Dean was willing to present, still glaring down and running a finger over the wood as if it were the most interesting specimen he'd come across in all his years of hunting.

“It's not a big deal, man,” Sam said again carefully, treading the subject like the carpet of broken glass it was, belying his words.

Dean's only response was a grunt of irritation. Sam didn't get it, probably never would unless he happened to be tossed into the desert and hump some strange guy he barely knew. And that wouldn't happen as long as Dean was around, so whatever.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

He wouldn't be around for much longer, though, and there was the rub. The giant pain-in-the-ass corner he'd painted himself into. Couldn't live without Sam, couldn't watch after him if he was dead, and if the last few months had taught him anything, it was that Sam would probably get himself into all kinds of fucked-up shit just to spite him if he went ahead and died without a fight.

He couldn't bring himself to confront the confusion he'd been living with for nearly a year, though. Not head on. Not like this. What was he supposed to do? Walk up to Xander's friggin' castle and say, “Hey, dude, sorry about the mutual masturbation, but, uh, I kinda need you to help me not die?” And, of course, Xander would welcome him with open arms, and Dean wouldn't remember the feel of them under his hands, the tension and movement of muscle as he gripped them and...

Fuck. Dean drained his beer like a man fresh out of the desert—

Goddammit!

He stood abruptly, sending his chair crashing backwards as he tossed the empty bottle across the room. It shattered against the far wall, bits of brown glass falling to the chipped counter top, and Sam tensed a little at the sudden display of outrage, but wasn't surprised.

Dean leveled him with the fire he could feel burning in his eyes, never able to mask that part of himself from anyone that knew to look. He worked his jaw, clenched and unclenched his fists, back so tense and rigid it was painful. “I don't wanna talk about this anymore, Sam,” he ground out, each word deliberate.

Sam looked up at him, sweating bottle still in his loose grip, eyes brimming with concern, stifled anger, and worse, fucking pity.

Dean couldn't deal with that shit any better than the rest, so he turned on his heel and stalked out of the kitchen, slammed out through the front door and stood on the porch for a long moment, unsure of where to go.

The afternoon sun beat down on the junkyard, reflecting off bits of chrome and rusted metal, bright glimmers and dull glows. Drive. He could just get in the car and drive... wherever. Couldn't outrun anything, but he could pretend, just for a little while.

He fumbled in the pocket of his jeans for the keys as he stomped out to the Impala, puffs of dirt rising up from his footfalls, the barely existent breeze carrying the dust a pitiful distance before it settled again. He heard the low rumble of Bobby's Chevelle pulling in through the metal archway, returning from his grocery run. Dean wrenched the car door open with its customary groan, but didn't look up. Wasn't in the mood to deal with anyone else at the moment, didn't want the elder hunter getting any ideas that there was an invitation for conversation anywhere in his expression or posture. He dropped himself behind the wheel, slamming the door closed with one hand while jamming the key into the ignition with the other.

The Chevy rumbled to life, and Dean stomped the pedal, backing up in a spray of dirt, wheels sliding loudly over the ground before he shifted into drive and peeled out of the yard. A glimpse in his rear view revealed a dust-obscured Sam lurking on the porch with his hands in his pockets again, Bobby standing next to his car with a puzzled, worried look on his face, adjusting his hat the way he did when he felt fidgety or agitated, both of them watching Dean's abrupt departure.

Dean snapped his gaze to the road and aimed for the nearest highway. He needed open road and lots of... not thinking. No thinking meant he couldn't be confused, wouldn't have to think about being confused, or why he was, which was just... confusing. Not a state Dean handled well under any circumstances. Just pissed him right the hell off, usually resulted in a fit of rage that violently turned every stone and boulder until the answer presented itself front and center. His fit wasn't yielding any kind of result in this instance, though. Confusion was here to stay, planted its flag and claimed his head for the duration.

The Impala ate up the dirt road that led away from Bobby's place, expanses of not much in the way of scenery zipping by beyond the windows. Lots of overgrown grass, weeds, a wildflower, and, hey, more grass.

Sunlight glinted off one of the cleaner spots of black paint on the hood, the rest of it coated in a thin layer of film. He needed to wash her. Later, maybe, when being immobile didn't cause so much of a knot in his chest.

Late spring in South Dakota was nice and crisp. Not too cool, not too warm, but the car had been sitting in the sun all morning, and the interior had become a tad too stifling. Dean rolled down his window, the breeze created by the speeding car rushing in to ruffle his hair and cool his face as he shrugged out of his blue overshirt and tossed it in the passenger's seat, ran his tongue over his lips subconsciously and found himself searching for a taste he still had no name for.

He switched on the stereo and turned the volume all the way up, always conducive to the banishment of deep thought.

The opening heavy beats of Reckoning Day pounded out of the speakers, and Dean's fingers began drumming at the wheel, the tension in his back already easing as he prepared to lose himself in the deafening music and his own mindlessly loud singing.

“I like the way that I make you itch,” he sang along with Mustaine, less in tune, but easily matching the octave of the singer when the man wasn't screeching. “And all the reasons I give you to bitch.” Dean bobbed his head and relaxed a little more. “And how I make you wanna scream in pain, and feel your life is just a losin' game...”

Dean stopped singing and frowned, but Megadeth played on.

I like the way that you let me in
The way you look when the walls cave in
I like the way that your stomach knots
And how you cry for it all to stop

I like the way that you fool yourself
And make believe there's nobody else
I like the way that you stand in line
And beg salvation from the empty skies

As the song went into the chorus, Dean felt taunted, stopped really hearing it, only focusing on the image his mind had provided: a smirking carpenter with malevolence in his remaining brown eye, chuckling low at the fact that he was still in there. Had wormed his way in and never planned to leave, and Dean was right back to being pissed off as the lips that haunted his nightmares started moving, singing along, the last verse penetrating his unpleasant daydream.

I like the way you stay on attack
No matter what, I keep coming back
And how you try to hold me down
But you end up driven to the ground

Dean switched the music off with a violent flick of his wrist before the chorus could start up again, muttering, “Fuck you, Dave. Goddamn traitor.”

He glared at the stereo when the car fell into silence, save for the wind rushing through his window, the ticking in his head. His temper boiled as if the tape deck had gone and crapped out on him of its own accord. Being pissed off at it wouldn't do him any good, though. He wasn't about to smash it—very few things in life called for that sort of blasphemy—but he didn't like the prospect the lack of sound presented.

As if in answer to a prayer he hadn't even uttered, Dean's phone rang. He shifted to the side and eagerly dug it out of his pocket, then decided prayers were better left unanswered when Sam's number appeared on the screen. Dean sighed heavily and grumbled curses, but jabbed at the damn thing anyway, then pressed it to his ear, not even needing to bark out an unpleasant greeting before Sam was talking.

“When are you coming back?” Sam asked, his voice weary, resigned to his fate of being saddled with a moody brother.

Maybe never. The alien thought entered Dean's head from left field and, shocking himself, he didn't crush it into oblivion right away.

He could just go. Sam would be safe at Bobby's, and he knew the man would look after him. Dean could just drive off into the sunset never to be seen or heard from again, spend the remainder of his life however he wanted without worries of forced confrontations, and most tempting of all, Sam wouldn't have to see him die. Wouldn't have to watch him be shredded apart by hellhounds, wouldn't be quite as scarred for life. Maybe... but Dean knew he couldn't do it even as he briefly entertained it. As long as he existed in his current incarnation, Dean couldn't stay away from Sammy unless his brother kept that distancing arm raised, and he really wasn't doing that lately.

“Dean?” Sam's tone was tinged with dawning worry that would graduate to full-blown panic soon if something wasn't done about it.

Dean sighed and proceeded to stomp and kick the tattered thought of lone-wolfing it away. “I dunno,” he sighed out, a headache forming behind his eyes as he stared blankly at the road in front of him, steering one-handed. “Later,” he decided.

Sam sighed loudly, no doubt frustrated with Dean's very specific answer. “Where are you going?”

“Dunno.”

Silence. Dean suspected Sam was either grinding his teeth or frowning deeply. Anger and concern warred for dominance on Sam's features most days, and Dean was tired of it. He didn't mind being the target for Sam's anger when necessary, but he didn't like Sam worrying so much. Dean did the worrying, Sam did the getting kidnapped and strangled—this was the long-established pattern of their lives, and this whole thing was screwing it all to hell.

“I talked to Dawn,” Sam said after a beat, hesitant.

“Good for you,” Dean snapped, uncertain anger building in his chest again.

Sam talked to Dawn a lot, usually for research purposes, sometimes just to converse with someone who wasn't emotionally stunted. Nothing to be concerned about most of the time, because there had been a firm agreement that certain things were not to be revealed to her or her crew. Given the most recent topic of conversation, though, Dean's gears were grinding away and ready to blow a gasket.

“Dean.” Just that, just his name in that tone said it all.

“Dammit, Sam, I'm gonna kick your ass!” Dean growled, his tightening grip on the steering wheel whitening his knuckles as he glanced around, like maybe there'd be something suitable to aim his burning glare at if he kept it up long enough.

Sam huffed. “You know what? Fuck it, Dean. I don't care,” he ground out, and Dean could picture him pacing back and forth, looking for his own physical target. “Not gonna let you die, so get over it. One fucking mystical mishap and you're like some whackjob that can't find his meds. Crazier shit has happened, man, so you either talk to me, or you find out where your emotional suppressor went and get it back.”

“Mystical mishap?” Dean scoffed, three parts incredulity, one part ire.

“Whatever, dude, it coulda been worse. At least it wasn't a demon.”

Dean ground his teeth together, remembering how much Sam just. Did. Not. Get. It.

And whose fault is that? a subversive voice whispered in his head.

Dean told the voice where it could go and just how violently it could get there while at the same time he told Sam, “Fuck you,” and hung up.

Five seconds later, the phone rang in his hand, and Dean silenced it before tossing it into the passenger's seat. He saw the railroad tracks too late, barely had time to slow down before the car was bumping roughly over them, a horrid scrape of his undercarriage swiping claws over his fraying nerves.

“Son of a bitch!” he shouted, stomped the brake and jerked the wheel hard to the right, pulling over as far as he could to side of the dirt road, half the Impala settling in the grass.

He shoved the door open and moved to the trunk, dropped to his knees and laid down to scoot underneath her. A sigh of partial relief puffed out of him when he didn't see any debilitating damage, just a few black marks along the metal that he'd apologize profusely for later. When he wasn't spiraling into emotional chaos, that was. He slid back out and stood, absently brushing some of the dirt from his black tee as he adjusted the partially twisted cotton.

Looking around, he noted the scenery had gotten a bit more scenic when he wasn't paying attention. There were still overgrown fields of golds and varying shades of green as spring settled into its magic, but a few trees had popped up, a particular cluster catching his gaze, the leaves shifting ever so slightly in the wind.

For no real reason, he decided he didn't want to drive anymore. Well, maybe the abuse of his baby was a small part of his not-reasoning, and maybe driving for distraction wasn't such a great idea when other distractions refused to be pushed aside. He walked to the driver's side and leaned in to shut the engine off, left the phone right where it was, closed his door and made for the trunk. Popping it open, he ferreted around through one of the bags for a bit. He had to have something in here... jackpot! He liberated the nearly full bottle of Jim Beam with a victorious grin and slammed the trunk shut, shoved his keys into his pocket, then proceeded toward the shade of those trees.

Thinking it was, then. Fat lotta good that had done him so far, but, hey, maybe a revelation would pop up this time if he just let it happen instead of accidentally sinking into it and trying to claw his way back out. Yeah, right.

Didn't matter, really, and he should just let it go. He didn't understand why his brain couldn't release its death grip on this bullshit when there were more important things to be worrying about, but then, he never was one for self-reflection. Dean was a firm believer in not knowing himself too well, because he didn't like what he did know for the most part. He normally refused to tear through the mess of himself and make it worse, tried his damnedest to keep it all under lock, key, and whichever mask was appropriate at the time (what he felt was appropriate, anyway, because others didn't always agree).

But this wasn't normal. Dean's trash pile had apparently been loaded down with the wrong kind of crap and was constantly being rejected with a note pinned to it to inform him it hadn't been sorted properly, but lacked directions to the relevant bin. Which left it flying around unchecked and stinking up the place.

Dean sighed as he neared the trees, long blades brushing against the denim of his legs before he stepped into the shade, tramped-down grass indicating someone visited this spot often. It was deserted for the moment, though, and that was all he needed to know.

He lowered himself to the ground with a groaning sigh, his knees popping a bit, unscrewed the cap of his whiskey and took a long pull before settling the bottle in his lap. He leaned back against a trunk, tilted his head back and gazed up at clear blue sky peeking through the foliage, which blocked the sun enough that he didn't really have to squint in order to observe the shape of any cloud that might want to pass over. None had ventured to do so yet, so he waited and just let his mind go where it wanted for once.

*~*~*

December 2007

Christmas had been a bad idea. Bad, evil, and wrong.

Dean slammed his empty shot glass down and eyed the scruffy bartender with his pit-stains and yellowing t-shirt that might have been white once upon a time and was currently too small, the middle-aged man's beer belly bulging out in all its hairy glory. Dean wasn't commenting on it, though he might have if he was feeling at all himself, and he probably would if the man bent over for any reason and gave Dean an eyeful of ass crack he just knew those loose, fraying jeans would present.

The man turned at the crack of the glass against cheap wood, giving a grunt and a nod before turning back to pick up a bottle of Kessler and bringing it over for a refill. He took one good look at Dean and left the bottle, then turned to finish his riveting conversation with a lumberjack at the other end of the bar.

Dean slammed the shot back, grimaced at the cheap whiskey aftertaste and the curdling of his gut, then decided to forgo the glass and wrapped his splintered fingers around the bottle.

Fucking Christmas trees, he thought as he chugged, the crappy alcohol blazing a fiery trail down his throat, but still not eliciting the desired density of fog in his brain.

Christmas was evil, the trees were hellspawn sent to torment him, and he was a damn moron for ever wanting to celebrate the holiday because it would be his last. What the fuck had he been thinking? Of course some whacked-out Pagan gods were going to fuck everything up with a bunch of goddamn wreaths so they could play demented Santa. How could he expect any less, being a Winchester and all?

But, okay, he could've handled that. Just par for the course, but the rest... the trees and their fucking smells. God, he swore that smell was all over town, could almost catch a whiff of it even in this smoky, musty bar.

His eyes settled on the lumberjack again, and his brain caught up, fingering the culprit. Bastard.

Dean drank some more, trying not to think too hard about the look on Sam's face when he'd left. He'd apologize for acting like a nutjob later. Maybe. All he wanted at the moment was to get good and wasted. Alcohol was the solution to all problems of the over-thinking variety.

Getting laid, though, that was something that hadn't been working out so well for him lately.

Dean had never even considered the day when losing himself in a night of carnal pleasure with a willing woman wouldn't make him feel better. It was just too horrible to contemplate. But apparently, it was something he should have come up with some kind of contingency for, because it had happened, and he was still reeling. As if he needed anymore of that shit. He was fucking dizzy with all the friggin' aliens in his head, and really, the only kind of dizzy that was acceptable was a drunk dizzy. Which was what he was going for.

He wasn't so sure that last thought made sense, then congratulated himself and the whiskey in his grip by chugging more of it.

Someone obviously thought the clacking of pool balls in one corner of the room, the varying barks of laughter and obnoxious conversation from the tables, and the steady hum of the ceiling fans wasn't creating the correct ambiance for this dive, because the sounds of some old timey country song invaded the bar right then. Dean looked over and wished himself the power of laser vision when he spotted the guilty party in front of the juke box: an attractive, young, curvy blond clad in jeans that had to be painted on her slender legs and an ivory camisole top that revealed a strip of firm stomach and an ample view of her cleavage. He glared for two reasons: one, he hated this depressing crap, and two, she was hot and causing his groin to stir a little, but not quite enough.

And that was really the problem right there. At first, Dean thought the pheromones had spoiled him, like he'd constantly be chasing that high and never feel it again. He thought he'd get over it, but nope. Sex just wasn't mind-blowing enough for him, and nothing turned him on the way it used to. The real sore spot, though, was there hadn't been any actual sex with Xander. He probably could have rubbed himself against that pink cactus in the desert and gotten the same effect, which just sucked out loud. Un-fucking-fair that he had to be ruined in such a way.

Of course, it turned out that wasn't it. Well, he wasn't sure if it was, because there was all kinds of confusion and he wasn't sure of anything, but he thought maybe he was gay for a little while there. Dreams of that night in the desert had Dean rock hard and nowhere to stick his dick some nights, and there was the customary freak-out that occurred once he finished jerking off.

But no, not that either. Probably.

He'd tried checking other guys out to see if anything stirred, but there'd been zilch in the arousal department. He could appraise and think a guy had a decent haircut, or that he probably made fair headway with the ladies, but there was no all-consuming need to fuck any of them into the floor. Not even a twitch from his dick on the matter, because it was apparently through screwing up his life and had bowed out.

Dean needed more whiskey, remembered he had some in his hand, then finished it off.

He hadn't figured out the proper way to thank Xander yet. An explode-o-gram, some kind of penis curse, maybe, or a really long goodbye letter that outlined his imminent damnation and the preview he'd been afforded for the past few months that would make the carpenter feel guilty as hell. Decisions, decisions. The latter seemed too girly vindictive, but Dean hadn't completely discarded it yet because he figured it might hit the man with all the girlfriends where it hurt. Really, he was only hanging onto these ideas he'd never go through with for lack of a real solution, because Dean wasn't the type to woe-is-me out loud or leave any kind of evidence behind if he slipped up.

Dean's train of thought was interrupted when someone slid onto the stool next to him. He turned his head, ready to tell the guy to fuck off because there were plenty of available stools, and it was common courtesy to stay the hell out of his personal space when it could be avoided, but he stopped short when he caught sight of him.

Tanned skin, dark hair, brown eyes, well-muscled and clad in form-fitting jeans that were worn at the knees, a sleeveless gray shirt that clung to his upper body, and dirt-scuffed work boots. Most importantly, though, he'd set a bright orange hard hat on the bar and was eyeing Dean with no small amount of interest. No eyepatch, no little dip of his upper lip, not Xander, but fucking close enough as far as Dean's swimming head was concerned. His cock cast a half-ass vote in favor of his new idea, and that was more than awesome.

Dean flashed his best come-hither smirk and blatantly let his eyes rove over the man. A small twitch of the stranger's mouth and a telltale shift on his seat, and Dean knew he was good to go. It was just as well, because he had zero patience for any further seduction.

He slapped a few wrinkled bills onto the bar and couldn't hop off his stool fast enough. Well, he kind of let gravity do the work and there was more stumbling than hopping, but that was nifty too because the man wrapped a large hand around his bicep to keep him from face-planting. Dean shivered a little at the touch, his drunken imagination filling in gaps and skewing details to fit those rough hands to someone else's face. Wasn't all that hard given the resemblance and copious amounts of liquor.

He straightened, gave a nod to assure he had his feet under control, and pointedly glanced at the exit, eliciting a slight nod in return. He purposefully stumbled, couldn't wipe the smirk off his face to save his life as the construction worker took his cue and stood up to help him.

“Lemme call you a cab,” the man said unconvincingly, but Dean was in too good a mood to hold his crappy acting against him.

He shook his head, and slurred out, “Spent it all on booze,” waving a hand at the bar. “S'okay, just gonna walk. S'not far.”

The man sighed, looked around, and said in a more believable tone, “Lemme give you a ride, man, so you don't end up roadkill.”

Dean appeared to consider it, then nodded, and they continued the hapless drunk and his good Samaritan charade all the way to the parking lot.

The guy had a beat-up minivan of all things, and Dean really had walked, leaving the Impala with Sam since he'd planned to get sloshed and didn't want to wreck her. He loathed having to climb into the thing, but the situation worked out, because once Dean determined the guy lived three blocks away—which was way too far and way too long to wait—he discovered that the tattered backseat folded down.

At that point in his life, Dean didn't care if he was gay, bi-sexual, or a necrophiliac. He just needed to know what would make his dick happy so his remaining days could have some kind of hurrah to them. Maybe he just hadn't found the right type of guy before, but his dick was slowly but steadily gaining interest when they fumbled their way into the back, not exchanging names or pleasantries before Dean latched onto his mouth and proceeded to lick his tonsils.

The night was cool, but Dean was way too hot, and not in an inflated ego kind of way. Well, that too, but his excitement had his body heat ratcheting up several notches and he couldn't discard his layered shirts fast enough. He didn't really register the fact that his imagination was doing a lot of filling in until the guy took his own shirt off.

He tried to ignore the lack of scars, the scent of wood that was almost there but not quite, the wholly different taste in his mouth as he put teeth, tongue and lips to good use. Tried not to notice the feel of the muscle beneath his hands wasn't as defined as he wanted it to be, that the moans weren't creative enough, and that he could really do without any kind of talking because the guy had a slight drawl that didn't fit.

He tried, and it worked for a while, but his cock started losing interest right around the time the guy took his turn with his mouth and riddled his upper torso with bite marks and bruises, light scratches where his blunt nails dragged over skin, bucking against him relentlessly and and panting heavily in his ear. Dean tried hard to get back into it, kicked his own aggression up and surpassed the man in brutal foreplay, but it failed. Completely and utterly.

It was the marking that threw the whole thing out of whack. It felt... wrong for this guy to be leaving evidence of this encounter on his skin, like a betrayal somehow, and Dean couldn't do it. His hard-on wilted and left the game, and Dean, drunk and disheartened as he was, nearly burst into tears as he pushed the guy off and groped around for his shirts.

He managed to keep it under control, though, and when asked what the problem was, couldn't come up with anything but a woefully confused and truthful, “S'not working.”

He dressed quickly, disappointment giving way to anger as he stumbled out of the van and left a puzzled construction worker behind, emotion swirling through him in a raging torrent that he was certain would rip him apart. He barely saw the pavement as he stalked back to the motel in a red haze, then he actually did cry a little when Sammy opened the door to his incessant banging, looking at him with blatant distress.

“I'm no-sexual, Sammy,” Dean announced miserably, tripping over himself into the room. He spotted a bed and collapsed face-first onto it, felt the dip of the mattress as his brother sat next to him and started pulling his boots off.

There was a long conversation after that, Sam having forced Dean upright to take advantage of his insobriety. Dean vaguely recalled asking for a chastity belt and declaring himself born again, some faint train of thought pertaining to repentance and saving his soul through celibacy since his dick didn't work anyway and he couldn't possibly be sent to hell after this.

He didn't remember much else, and as far as he was concerned, the whole night was closed to further discussion, cheap-ass whiskey and its heinous effects blamed for the entire ordeal.

*~*~*

Present

Sam was worried.

Understatement.

Sam couldn't pinpoint a time in the last eleven months that he wasn't on the verge of a meltdown if he wasn't actually busy melting. Potential damnation aside, Dean had been way off his game, and when Sam finally traced all the freak-outs back to the source, he found the same thing every time: Xander.

Dean wouldn't talk about it unless he was telling Sam exactly when going to the Council for help was gonna happen, which was when hell froze over. Sam had pointed out that he wouldn't be so worried if hell froze over, because maybe that would throw it out of whack and it'd lose Dean's placeholder, but the attempt at levity had fallen flat on its face, convulsed and died. More signs of something definitely not right with Dean, because since when couldn't his brother appreciate lame humor as a defense mechanism? Well, since getting back from a demonic breeding ground, apparently.

The signs, though missed at first, were all worrisome in themselves. Sam would catch Dean staring with an almost pained expression at a bag of M&Ms that had melted in the glove compartment, like he couldn't decide whether to give it a proper burial or set it on fire. Or he'd see Dean stop dead in his tracks when they happened by a construction site, and Sam swore his brother completely forgot how his motor functions and brain signals operated, a wrench in the works that had everything scrambling for a manual, because it took Sam practically dragging him away to get him moving again.

And then there were times that called for completely justified freaking out on Sam's part, like when Dean stopped picking up random women, a hollow-sounding, “Whatever, I don't care,” his only explanation for it when Sam questioned him. Or worse, when Dean tossed the pathetic Christmas tree Sam had pilfered right through the motel window after a hunt that had him uncharacteristically jittery. He'd disappeared that night, came stumbling back stinking drunk, hickeys and bite marks adorning all visible skin, tears standing in his eyes, mumbling things that alarmed Sam pretty effectively, among them a tirade about the smell of pine trees.

Sam could have chalked it up to the hellfire on the horizon, except he knew that wasn't it. Dean got snappy when Sam brought it up, yeah, but he didn't get... crazy. That was really the only way Sam knew to describe the distinctly not-Dean behavior, and he'd repeatedly tested his brother for all kinds of possession before wondering if a psychiatrist was in order.

It all came back to the subject of a little trip to Cleveland, and while Sam didn't know the details of why certain things made Dean lose his mind, it didn't take long for him to put two and two together and get some idea of the implications.

Dean having a crisis of sexual orientation was so far down on the scale of things to be concerned about, though. Sam wondered if Dean actually thought anyone who mattered would care about him being gay. Okay, they'd care, but only in the supportive 'who gives a fuck who you fuck because you're still awesome' way. Anyone that tried to shun or lynch him would have to go through Sam and Bobby first and likely emerge from the other side of that confrontation with a new perspective, courtesy of blunt force trauma.

Sam huffed and pivoted, Bobby's living room way too small for his mile-long legs to get a decent stretch before he ran out of space and had to turn back again. Bobby watched him surreptitiously from the kitchen as he put the groceries away at a subdued rate, like he was worried about sudden movements, or maybe he was preparing to throw something over Sam's head when he inevitably poured one too many tasks into his multi-tasking brain and exploded.

It was just... stupid. This whole thing. Dean was expending way too much energy freaking out over possible gayness and not enough on his impending demise. It was kind of pissing Sam off.

He got that it was a big deal, and he didn't want to underplay this huge self-realization his brother had going—people were completely entitled to a period of flailing for stability when their own perspectives were undergoing such drastic alterations. But they weren't most people. Dean just did not have the luxury of time on this one. After they were all sure Dean was no longer on any fuel for the fire lists, he could flip the fuck out to his heart's content. Sam would totally spot him then.

Dean just had no idea how much Sam was panicking. He thought he did, but he had only the slightest inkling as to what the world would be like without his brother in it. Hours at most. Sam had had three months of moving through the world like a ghost when the Trickster had pulled that Groundhog Day bullshit. He'd detached himself, shut down, left things the way he'd found them, killed the bad and wiped it clean, ignored the good and indifferent so as not to taint it. No signs that he was ever there at all, as if leaving too large a mark on existence without Dean would make it this irreversible reality, and he'd get stuck.

Then there'd been Bobby.

Sam screwed his eyes shut and abruptly stopped pacing, arms rigid at his sides, fists balled as he focused on blunt nails biting into the skin of his palms and tried to will away the memory, that fleeting moment thinking he'd stabbed his surrogate father in cold blood, and not the Trickster. The things he did, the things he'd be willing to do again, just to have his brother back. There was this sick, twisted, blackness inside, rancid and sour, whenever he let himself think too hard about that. He didn't want to.

Sam didn't want those memories, didn't want the possibilities that lie ahead if he failed to save Dean, didn't want this fucking contract to even be an issue anymore. He should've disposed of this bullshit long ago, and goddammit, he wasn't going to dwell. Dwelling was a waste of time.

He expelled a lungful of air, shoving the memory out with it, shook himself loose and started pacing again.

Dean would just have to get over it, was all. That was what backburners and dark, mental corners were for. Prioritize, save the rest for later.

He'd let Dean put him off this long, but he just couldn't anymore. The Council had resources beyond his wildest dreams, and Sam would be damned right along with Dean if he wasn't going to use them. Dawn had been beyond pissed when Sam told her. Not as much over the news itself as over the fact that he'd waited until the heat of the flames were licking at Dean's heels. There'd been excessive shrieking, and his ears were still ringing with it, but the important thing was that she was helping. Right at this moment, as he was trying to come up with the ultimate argument for getting Dean to Cleveland, she was sounding the research alarm. And, if all else failed, the Cleveland Headquarters was the most heavily warded and guarded place Sam could think of to stave off collecting hounds and demons alike.

It was a sensible, last-minute plan. Why the fuck couldn't Dean just cooperate for once?

Sam knew why, though. His brother was a screwed-up, complicated ass behind an oversimplified facade. Dean would rather sink into sex-with-a-guy hysteria than overthink his suicidal choice and take a long, hard gander at the shitstorm he'd stirred up. That might lead to something like regret, or having to admit he was wrong out loud, even if they both knew he'd do it again.

Dumbass, Sam thought, grinding his teeth. Dean was a damn genius when it came to tactics and weapons and pretty much everything else that Sam couldn't be bothered to think of. But when it came to family, Dean was a complete moron. A self-sacrificing, brave, overly generous and selfish moron. Some might say you couldn't be generous and selfish at the same time, but Dean... Dean found a way, especially if it meant he'd confound and defy accurate description. He was a pain in the ass like that.

Speaking of being a pain in the ass, where the hell was he? Sam glanced at the dusty windows and the fading light of the westering sun. Dean was taking too long to pull himself together.

Screw this, he groused mentally, whirled on his heel, gathered up the duffels they'd been living out of, and stalked for the front door. Bobby dropped the cans of food in his hands and quickly trotted after him. Sam didn't even have to glance back to know to hold the door open for him, a jingle alerting him that the elder hunter had already dug his keys out of his pocket as they each made for opposite sides of the Chevelle.

Bobby was loathe to let both Winchesters out of his sight with the encroaching deadline, and Sam wasn't about to ask him to. He was eternally grateful for the shred of sanity the elder man provided when Dean decided he needed to test the limits of his patience, which was happening a hell of a lot these days. Bobby had that uncanny knack of knowing when to be the silently supportive mind-reader and when to be the thunderous chest-poker. He'd earned his right to be included long ago, anyway, and he was operating under the well-founded belief that as long as he had one of the brothers in view, the other wouldn't be far off.

Sam tossed the duffels into the back, folded himself into the passenger's seat and slammed the door, glaring out the windshield at nothing in particular in anticipation of Dean's renewed fit as Bobby dropped behind the wheel and got the motor revving.

“Thought of a way to change his mind yet?” Bobby asked gruffly, executing a K-turn and pulling out onto the road, presumably headed for the nearest bar as that was the most likely place to find Dean in times of high stress.

Bobby didn't know all of what had gone down all those months ago, but he'd picked up enough: some kind of magical trauma that resulted in Dean never wanting to even speak of the state of Ohio, much less anyone that might live within its boundaries. Sam knew he'd have to let him in on the details eventually, because he was really starting to get that he couldn't drag his brother through that minefield of emotional turmoil on his own. That was for later, though. Dean's deal was the only now.

Sam shook his head agitatedly, shoved his bangs back out of his eyes, and huffed again. He was probably breaking a record with harsh exhales lately. “Don't have time to get into it again. I'm just gonna knock him out,” he answered matter-of-factly, like it was the most obvious solution to his brother's pig-headedness, pay no attention to the cracking knuckles, nothing to see here.

Bobby grunted noncommittally and pressed harder on the gas.

- - - - - - -

A/N 2: Xander and friends next chapter. :) Happy holidays!