Every Purpose Under Heaven

Fandom: Supernatural

Category/Rated: NC17 for Wincest

Year/Length: 2006/~9704 words

Pairing: Sam/Dean

Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, only having fun.

Author's Notes: This is set immediately after Shadow, and shows just how much Dean was hurt by Sam's callous confession that he would leave as soon as they caught the demon.

Beta: Many thanks go to ailurophile6 for her sterling and speedy beta. Anything that's still in there went in afterwards when I tweaked it, and I am solely to blame.

It occurred to Dean that his life had always been this: watching Sam in the thin strip of light that was caused by the drapes failing to meet in the middle of the window in yet another shabby motel room, this time somewhere in the back-roads of Illinois.

They were exhausted again; it seemed as though they were always exhausted these days, ceaselessly chasing after something they could only recognize from what it had done and never quite catching up to it.

Sam was sleeping now, exhausted from the struggle with the daeva, his face crusted with blood despite the rudimentary first aid that Dean had applied on reaching their present location. Dean studied Sam's cheek, wondering if there would be scars there to mar his brother's handsome face even as the blood still trickled, thick and sluggish, down his own.

He hurt. He was used to hurting – had spent most of his life experiencing one pain or another, but this was a wound to his soul, and it came not from the shadow creatures that had attacked them, but from within. Sam would leave him; he'd told Dean so; it seemed that Sam didn't give a shit for him. Maybe Sam was regretting falling back in with him, and Dean couldn't blame him, because he was beginning to realize just how much of a loser he was.

He looked at Sam, sleeping quietly and realized at last that he was a failure. The sight of his brother pulled the blood to his groin at the same time as it filled his sinus cavities with tears that burned, stung and threatened to spill down his cheeks. Sinking down to sit on the edge of the bed, he pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to contain his salty grief, and felt again the slight irregularity of a nose broken years before in a desperate fight to the finish with a demon that had been trying to tear Sam apart.

Sam. Everything he'd done, everything he was, had been for Sam. His servitude had begun in an explosion of flame. He had raced with his precious burden out of the house that had been his home for the first four years of his life, ahead of a heated cloud that threatened to lick them both back. Dad had entrusted Sammy to him and told him to take care of his baby brother; ever since then, that's what Dean had done.

And it wasn't enough. It couldn't possibly be enough, or Sammy wouldn't still be so determined to leave him. Everything that he was, he'd laid down for Sam, body, heart and soul, and now he had nothing left to give that was his own.

An unwelcome tear spilled over to wet his lashes and coast down his cheek, and he scrubbed at it furiously, afraid that somehow Sam would awaken and see and take this from him too.

Gazing at his brother, he remembered things he didn't want to. He recalled skinned knees and petty squabbles and warm, sweet nights when they'd known that they had each other in every way that was possible, and that they were together, a single unit split into two gangly bodies.

He saw Sam – his Sam – long and lean and predatory, moving stealthily, gun in hand, or frowning over the laptop, or crouched in pain as the visions came through to pierce his heart and send them careering after yet another twilight spirit as if they were some kind of shadowy Robin Hood of the soul.

He saw Sam, so determined that he would have what he wanted and so insistent that what he wanted did not include Dean, and knew that this time the demon that had finally beaten him was the brother he adored.

In that moment, he made his decision. Sam didn't need him any more. His job was done. Sam was an adult now; he had powers that Dean could only imagine, and he would make his way on his own. He rose to his feet and fumbled in his pocket, taking out the keys to the Impala.

For a brief while he fantasized driving off on his own, king of the world, free at last. His shoulders squared, and he almost believed. Almost, but not quite.

Laying the keys down on the dresser for Sam to find later, he turned to write his brother a message. He wanted to pour out the love he'd never managed to express. He wanted to tell Sam all his hopes and dreams and how they'd been shattered. He wanted to wake Sam and kiss him and beg him to stay with him forever and love him.

What he wrote was, "See you around, Sammy. Love, Dean."

He set the note on the dresser and put the car keys on top of it to hold it down, then he turned and left, taking nothing. When you're nobody, you don't need anything. You don't need anything at all.

The sun had been up for hours when Sam finally awoke from a confused, drugged sleep. The side of his face was stiff with crusted blood, and he felt as though he'd gone several rounds with the WWF tag team champions.

He moaned as he sat up. His left eye was glued closed with dried blood from the claws of the daeva, and he hurt in every muscle, every bone and sinew.

"Ah, Jesus, Dean, I feel as if I've been beaten up by experts," he croaked, waiting for a comforting reply, an offer of a massage or maybe even a painkiller from the brother he knew would be there to ease his pain.

There was no answer from Dean. Sam reached for his watch, peering blearily at the time, and decided that Dean must have gone to find them some breakfast. Stumbling out of bed, he headed for the bathroom, relieving himself with a groan before turning on the shower to wash off the residue of their encounter with Meg and her demons.

The shower was hot and Sam stayed under it until he could feel the stiffness retreating, the warmth stealing into his bones as he lingered, allowing it to help his body feel almost normal once more. The towels were all dry, and Dean's washing gear was still on the counter in the small bathroom, so Sam hurried, shaving what he could, leaving the crusted wounds on his cheek and roughly toweling his hair.

Heading back into the bedroom, it was evident that Dean still wasn't back, and Sam could feel his belly rumbling, testament to the fact that he hadn't eaten since yesterday lunchtime.

He was skirting the bed to get clean underwear from his backpack, when he noticed the note on the dresser and frowned. Picking it up, he gave it a cursory glance and suddenly felt cold. The impossible had happened.

Dean had left him.

Dean had gone, leaving all that he was behind, and all at once Sam wondered what he was going to do.

He looked at the note again and tried to divine where Dean had gone – what he might be going to do.

The pain that suddenly hit him was intense, skewering his skull and sending lights flashing past eyes that were suddenly unable to focus. Sam moaned, dropping to his knees as he felt the vision begin to take him. The air around him shimmered, and the darkness that descended on him was tinged with red.

The road he saw in his waking dream was narrow, lined by trees, and Dean stumbled along, apparently favoring one knee Sam knew that he'd twisted it when one of the daeva had thrown him across the room, so evidently this vision was of Dean either right now or in the immediate future. His brother looked gaunt, and his usual, cocky stride was missing as he made his way along the hard shoulder. As Sam watched, an eighteen wheeler was approaching, looming behind Dean, far too close to his brother for Sam's peace of mind.

Sam thought that he might have screamed out a warning, but of course it was to no avail. As the truck passed he could see Dean stumble, and when it had gone his brother was lying beside the road, unmoving.

"No! Dean!" The words were a horrified whisper. As the images faded, Sam came to himself and found that he was groveling on the none-too-clean carpet. He hurried to his feet with one single thought in his mind. Find his brother. He had to find Dean. He didn't know how, but he was going to do it anyhow.

The man in the bed was pale, with dark circles under his eyes that made his dusting of freckles look almost as though they were spattered dirt. There were dressings on the side of his face, bruises marring the perfection of his pale skin, and there was a drip embedded in his wrist that was feeding blood back into his still frame. A doctor was at his bedside, studying his file.

"He's still out," he told the young nurse as she deftly changed the blood supply and checked his vital signs, recording his progress on his chart. "The X-rays show that there was bruising to the occipital area. He's going to have headaches, for sure, if he regains consciousness."

"If, doctor?" The nurse frowned. "It would be a shame, if he didn't," she murmured, more to herself than to the doctor. She adjusted the bedclothes over his unconscious form, her hand lingering on one freckled arm. "I think he'll be fine."

"There's something a little strange about the structure of his brain," mused the doctor. "Interesting anomaly – very interesting." Swiftly, he indicated a small, dark area on the X-ray he was studying. "I've never come across this before. It's almost as if the thalamus has an extra segment."

"You mean he has cancer?" The nurse's eyes flew to the pale, still face. "Oh, no!"

"No, it looks perfectly natural to me. Shouldn't think it affects him much, if at all. It's just interesting." The doctor handed her the file and turned to leave. "You can take him off the drip after he's had this one," he murmured. "I've put it on the chart."

The man in the bed continued to lie unmoving, unknowing and utterly at peace.

Days passed. The drip was removed, but he remained, still silent, still unmoving. The nurses had christened him Rip Van Winkle, and while they continued to care for him the way that they should, after a while, they stopped thinking that he would awaken and began to forget how handsome he was, believing that he would remain in a coma for the rest of his life.

It was the morning of the twelfth day he'd been in the hospital that the tide finally turned. The early shift had just come on duty, and the nurse had come to his bedside to check his vital signs. As usual she grabbed the chart and moved to his side to clip the monitor to his index finger. She almost squeaked when the hand twitched, and as she looked up she discovered that there was a pair of wide, confused green eyes fixed on her.

"Oh, goodness – you woke up." She gave him a beaming smile as she completed her notes and turned to summon assistance. He blinked, but didn't answer, merely smiling in a very uncertain manner.

The man in the bed had a sweet smile, and his eyes shone, the smile in them confused but good humored as he was joined by a swarm of young nurses, all intrigued by who he was, and hoping to hear his story.

Somehow, it seemed inevitable that he had no idea what that story might be.

He didn't speak – didn't seem to be able to use his voice at all, and even when he laughed there was no sound from him. He was sent for tests, and there appeared to be no damage to larynx or vocal folds, but Rip Van Winkle, awake now and slowly recovering from his injuries, didn't – or couldn't - communicate.

They found him a paper and pen, asked him for his name, and his stare was at once confused and apologetic. He shrugged, looked disturbed and rapidly became distressed as he tried without success to recall who he was.

As time drew on, it seemed to the man in the bed that he was missing something more than just his name. He was healing in body, able to walk short distances now without the need for a frame to steady him; his back was healing, and the many bruises were fading, the scabs beginning to drop from his wounds to leave his skin whole once more, but his mind was empty of his past. He didn't have a clue who he was or where he was from, and he still couldn't speak.

He didn't know what it was that he lacked. Sometimes in the night – because he didn't seem to be able to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time – he would see a face, dark, tousled hair, almond eyes and sweet, mocking smile, and he'd almost know who it was. He'd dreamed on the rare occasions that he was able to fall asleep for any length of time – vaguely uneasy dreams that he couldn't remember when he awoke – dreams full of menace; dreams where he fought and fought but couldn't quite succeed in saving...

He wished he could remember who he was, where he'd come from, and why he felt so anxious all the time, but there were no clues in the hospital, and there were no visitors to appear and tell him his name was Al or Bud or Norman and hi, we were worried about you.

He found himself chafing at the regime in the hospital. Unable to speak, he began to find anger an easy thing to exploit, his temper quick to fray. The nurses who had flocked around him when he'd first awoken were all now a little scared of his black moods. He knew it, but he couldn't seem to call a halt to it. Finally he decided that his presence there in the hospital would serve no further useful purpose, and six days after he'd finally regained consciousness, he climbed out of his bed during the early hours of the morning, put on what clothing he could find, stole a shirt and jacket from one of the supply cupboards, some jeans from another patient, and a pair of boots from the janitor and lit out of the hospital.

Where he was going he did not know, but that single image he held in a mind otherwise empty, of a face he did not know, was sufficient reason for him to leave. The owner of the face was definitely not coming to find him, so he would go and try to seek it out. It was something to do in a world otherwise without any purpose, and he had questions he needed answering.

There were dreams for Sam too, after a few days of silence. At first he thought that Dean was dead and grieved bitterly for the brother he'd never see again. For the first time he began to realize the true depths of his feelings for his brother, and following that he was suddenly stricken with the terrible comprehension of how Dean must have felt when he'd announced his departure.

It was about three weeks after he'd woken up alone that he started to get the headaches again, and almost crashed the Impala when the first vision struck.

He had been looking for Dean, trying desperately to find out where his brother had gone. He'd scoured the press for days, looking for anyone that might have been killed by an eighteen wheeler, and then when nothing emerged he'd scoured the hospitals for several hundred miles in every direction. There'd been nothing.

He'd slumped at that – spent a couple of days sitting in his bed, too stunned to cry, tormenting himself with memories of his brother, his adored Dean. Eventually, he'd made up his mind that he'd head back to Stanford, although for the life of him, he couldn't begin to contemplate returning to his studies just yet.

He'd set off for California, not knowing where the hell else to go, and he was almost through Nebraska and into Colorado, when the first vision hit. He had swerved, pulled onto the verge very swiftly indeed, and stopped the Impala mere inches from the ditch that ran along the edge of the road.

Sick and giddy, he'd rested his forehead against his hands, lax on the wheel, and given in to the pain as he allowed the waking dream that accompanied it to take him.

When his vision cleared, he could see that Dean had just climbed down from the cab of a truck, and now he was walking.

His brother was clad in ragged denim and looked none too clean. His customary sensual swagger was absent, and he was now most definitely favoring his right leg. As Sam watched, Dean left the main road and turned down the slip road that led towards a bar. Sam could see the flicker of neon, the letter A had burnt out, but the other lights flashed bravely, and Dean speeded up as though eager, his limp more evident as he headed towards the building.

As he watched, his brother entered the bar and made for the pool table towards the back of the room where a couple of men dressed in worn work wear were setting up trick shots and taking turns showing off their prowess.

It wasn't long before there was money on the table, and Dean was playing against one of the men while the other one looked on. Sam knew that his brother had never had any problem winning at pool, and it seemed obvious to him that Dean was doing what he did best, hustling the locals so he could eat.

When his vision cleared and once again he was sitting in the Impala, head throbbing and trying not to vomit, he frowned, wondering where his brother was. It was evident that Dean didn't want him around any more, and that hurt him in places he wouldn't ever have believed could be affected, but Sam was nothing if not obstinate; he'd been called stubborn by his father and pig-headed by his brother, but when it came to Dean he had just one thought. He would win, and Dean would have to suck it up.

He'd find Dean, just to say, ‘I told you so,' and give him his car back, and then he would throw him against the wall and beat him bloody for the agony he'd put Sam through.

It wasn't going to be easy; Sam knew that. The trick would be identifying Dean's location. He would need to think about that, but one thing he was sure of, and that was that he would win; he would find Dean and he would make certain that this never happened again.

The air in the bar was thick and smoky, and the punters gathered around the bar were all watching a football game. There was a lot of noise in the crowded interior, with the TV set blaring away, and the crowd around the bar yelling and catcalling as the match progressed. The mute with the big green eyes had managed to convey to one of the bartenders that he would like a beer, and now stood watching the players with great interest.

His interest had been noted by the two men who had just finished a hotly contested game, and it was apparent that they didn't think he would pose any kind of threat to their mastery of the cue. Following a muffled conversation, the taller of the two called out to him.

"Hey, buddy? You wanna play? Come on then. Ten bucks on the game?"

The mute stepped forward, his expression eager, and reached for the cue as if he knew how to play, giving rise to a snort of derision from the shorter man.

"Hey, Jonas, what're you doin'? Can't you see that he ain't all there?"

"Shut up, Sam!" The man who'd invited the mute to play was busy racking up the balls. "There's ten bucks on the table. I figure it'll be easy money."

As Jonas addressed his companion, the mute's face had clouded over, the smooth forehead furrowing and the fine brows drawing together in confusion, as his lips moved silently, shaping the name, ‘Sam,' but as swiftly as it had come, the expression was gone, leaving his face smooth once more and appearing to be faintly feeble-minded.

It seemed as if he'd at least understood that there was a wager because he felt in his pockets and produced a couple of grimy fives which he laid down on the table beside the ten, and reached for the cue once again.

The game progressed, and it seemed that the mute – they'd taken to calling him Silent Bob – did know his way around a pool table. He had a somewhat shaky start, but as the game progressed he suddenly seemed to get into his stride and his striped balls started to go down. Pretty soon he'd cleared the table apart from the eight ball.

"Where're you gonna put it, Bob?" asked Jonas, indicating the final ball with a smirk. Indeed, the lie of it wasn't great. There were several balls masking all the closer pockets, and the mute's opponent rubbed his hands, believing the money already his.

Pointing to a pocket that was partially obscured, Silent Bob smiled slightly, and his choice was heralded by a chorus of cat-calls from the two or three that were watching.

"Go right ahead, buddy," said Jonas, smirking, obviously thinking that he was already ten dollars better off.

The shot, when Bob finally made it, was nothing short of miraculous, coming off two sides of the table to head unerringly for the designated pocket. Had the two men been watching Bob's face rather than the ball, they'd have seen his eyes glow as they tracked it. Laying his cue down, Silent Bob reached for his winnings, ducking his head with a smile.

He was about to pick it up, when the man named Sam shot out a hand to grab his wrist. "Easy there, partner. Time for one more game, don't you think?"

Silent Bob's face for once didn't look confused. He gave Sam a moment's close scrutiny and nodded, pointing to the pile of money. As his new opponent tossed a twenty onto the small pile, he nodded and began to rack the balls again. Behind him, Jonas laughed. "You take him, Bob! That Sam's altogether too full of himself."

Time passed.

Sam caught glimpses of Dean from time to time, but had so far failed to locate him. Nothing in any of his visions had given him a clue as to where his brother was living. He narrowed down locations in his visions until it seemed that Dean was somewhere in Colorado, although it appeared that Dean too was on the move. Whenever Sam caught sight of him in one of his visions, he was climbing down from yet another truck and heading for yet another bar. Sam became more determined than ever to find him.

It was dusk and snowing when Sam's luck finally changed for the better. He was passing through Denver, wondering if he should stop for the night before the weather grew too awful, or whether it would be best to keep going.

He'd been sleeping in the car, conserving the money that Dean had left him, but it did look as if the night was going to be particularly cold, leaving him little alternative but to seek a more permanent shelter than the Impala, if he wanted to be even slightly functional by morning. He was way too tall to stretch out properly in the car, and it was cold enough that he knew that by morning he'd be completely useless unless he found somewhere warm to sleep.

He'd pulled over to assess his cash flow situation when the vision hit him again, stealing the breath from his body and slicing through his forehead with sudden, desperate pain.

Dean was once again emerging from the cab of a truck, but this time Sam could see the sign behind him, and his decision to find a motel for the night was suddenly a thing of the past as he reached for his road atlas. Fumbling through the pages, he swiftly traced the route he needed to take for Grand Junction, and headed back to the Interstate. As he put his foot down he resolved to drive through the night in an effort to catch up with his brother and put an end to the game of cat and mouse they'd been playing.

It was a little after three a.m. when Sam finally drew up beneath the very sign he'd seen in his vision and stepped out of the car to scout out the environment and stretch his aching muscles. He had no way of knowing exactly when Dean had passed this way, and was pinning his hopes on the fact that it hadn't been too long ago. The snow was much sparser here in the high desert, merely a thin crust on the ground through which poked clumps of dry grass that rustled in the biting wind. It seemed that he was likely to be sleeping in the car after all – except that as he looked around he could see faint footprints in the patches of snow.

"Dean," he whispered. "Guess my spidey senses are tingling all over again," he remarked, the constant ache in his heart testament to the fact that he was alone, and that the one who would have appreciated his comment was somewhere out there, waiting for him. "I'm coming to get you, Dean, ready or not. You'll never escape Bloodhound Sam the Psychic Psycho." He gave a snort of laughter and climbed back behind the wheel of the Impala to send the car on a slow crawl forward, brow furrowed with the effort of picking out the footprints in the snow.

The trail came to an end about a half mile further down the road and lead to the inevitable bar, now standing darkened and most definitely closed for the night. Sam resigned himself to passing what remained of the night in the car, thinking rather angrily that Dean was no doubt spending it in the bed of some big-breasted blonde. He never knew what it was that made him circle the building; maybe it was the need to stretch his legs or perhaps that sixth sense of his kicked in just at the right time, but whatever it was, as Sam turned the corner, prowling as noiselessly as a cat, he heard a faint, gasping moan from a patch of shadow behind what appeared to be a storage shed.

Gun at the ready, Sam ghosted over to see what had made the sound. He half expected to find an animal – a dog, perhaps, or some small scavenger trying for the garbage with its wealth of scraps. What he actually discovered, with a sick feeling deep in his belly, was a body.

At first, all Sam could see were feet, but as he crept forward, he began to make out the shape of the victim – for victim it very obviously was. He was lying prone, one arm flung forward as if he'd attempted to ward off the ground on which he lay.

He'd been beaten – that much was plain even in the faint moonlight which was all the illumination available. There was blood in a sticky pool beside the shadowy head, and worse, the man was half naked; his pants had been pulled away, his underwear a tattered and bloody memory. Sam dropped to his knees, laid a hand on the man's back. "Hey, buddy? Buddy? You okay?"

He got a faint sound in response to his silly question – a mere hitch of breath that proved the other was still alive, and Sam wondered what the hell to do. To leave this poor soul here would be tantamount to murder, but there was no telling how badly he'd been injured. Gritting his teeth, Sam rolled the unconscious victim over onto his back. He was rewarded with a whimper of pain as the man came to himself, but he was already starting back, horror in his eyes.

"Dean? Oh, God, Dean..."

Sam felt sick. His one thought was to get his brother away from here and tend to his injuries. Dean was thoroughly chilled, shaking with the cold, and as Sam put an arm around him to raise him to his feet it became apparent that Dean didn't know him.

"Dean, come on, man, we've got to get you into the car." Dean didn't appear to respond to any of Sam's whispered words, but he did stumble to his feet as Sam hauled him upright and fumbled for his jeans, trying with clumsy fingers to fasten them.

"It's okay, Dean." Sam knew that it was very much not okay, but he was trying to stay calm – trying his level best not to panic, to hold it together until he could get his brother out of there.

The journey back to the Impala seemed to take forever. Dean leaned heavily on Sam, shuffling along like an old man, and he didn't speak, head hanging and face contorted with the pain of his efforts to move. He still didn't seem to recognize his brother, much to Sam's dismay.

"One thing at a time," mumbled Sam. "Let's get you in the car, first; then I'll panic about the rest of it."

Sam spent the next few minutes seeing his brother safely established and belted into the passenger's seat, he moved around to take the wheel with a sigh of relief. It was past four by now, and he wondered where he could take Dean to get him cleaned up and sorted out. Bruises showed livid on his brother's cheekbone. One eye was blackened and half closed, and as Dean lay back in his seat, slowly warming his chilled body through as the Impala's heater kicked in, Sam gazed at him, half in pity and half in fury at the brutality of the ones that had assaulted him.

Dean seemed to doze, thick, dark lashes breaking like waves on his pale cheeks, and Sam pulled away back onto the highway, anxious now to find a stopping place, sure that he would be better able to take care of Dean when they were somewhere with a bed and a bathroom.

It was well after seven when Sam found somewhere, and the sky was beginning to lighten, pink tingeing the clouds that boiled overhead, so low against the rooftops that they felt oppressive to Sam, as though they somehow could weigh him down. The motel he'd found advertised all day breakfasts in the diner and satellite TV in every room. As he pulled in, Sam's eyes felt gritty – as though someone had shoveled his eyelids full of sand. For the first time since Dean had left him, he used one of his brother's credit cards, handing the check-in clerk a Visa in the name of Richard Sambora and counting himself lucky that it went through. After that, it merely became a matter of helping his apparently comatose brother into their room.

Waking him proved difficult. Dean seemed confused, said nothing and still didn't know Sam. His blank stare as Sam finally managed to wake him was unnerving. Sam assisted him out of the car and into the room, murmuring encouragement at every step.

Once inside, with the door and window warded, weapons within easy reach, and his brother's abandoned duffel at hand, Sam turned to Dean who had slumped down onto the edge of one of the beds to watch him warily.

"Okay, Dean, let's get you out of these clothes and into the shower," he said brightly and then winced, feeling a little like Mary Poppins at the faux chirpiness of his own voice. Dean didn't protest as Sam stripped him, merely cringing away as bruises and cuts were disturbed. The sight of his injuries made Sam's stomach turn. He'd been well and truly worked over – his ribs were black and blue, and his assailants had evidently used some kind of weapon on him, possibly a pool cue.

Sam studied the weals that criss-crossed almost every inch of his torso and wanted to cry. Instead, he gritted his teeth and carried on doing what he could for his big brother.

It was becoming more and more apparent to Sam that there was something very wrong with Dean, quite apart from the physical abuse he'd suffered. He got Dean into the shower and washed him clean while he stood silently, permitting it all, remote and distant as a dream. It seemed as if all vestiges of his brother's personality had gone... somewhere, leaving behind a caretaker who smiled empty smiles but understood nothing.

After the shower, Sam encouraged Dean to get into bed and, tired though he was, he watched over him until he slept before climbing into his own bed at last.

It was almost dark when Sam awoke once more. The sharp cold of the previous night had muted somewhat, and now a thin drizzle was falling, graying the remaining daylight that found its way past the uneven blinds.

Dean was still sleeping fitfully – his blankets were half off the bed and the sheet was tangled around his legs. His face was buried in the pillow, and the sight of the welts and bruises on his pale skin made Sam shiver all over again. Rising, he dressed swiftly and crossed to the diner, picking up coffee and burgers for them both before hastening back to his brother.

He tried again to call his father, leaving yet another message asking him to call back as soon as possible, relaying Dean's condition and trying to disguise the panic that lurked behind his words. Then he squared his shoulders and turned to wake his sleeping brother.

The dreams that filtered through the mute's head were at once comforting and confusing. The man whose face had constantly floated before him – his only memory – had found him and now all would be fine, although why he felt that way he didn't know.

A hand on his shoulder shook him awake, and he opened sticky, sleep encrusted eyes to see the face he'd been dreaming about. He struggled to sit up, smiling uncertainly. Taking the coffee that his rescuer offered him, he sniffed it appreciatively before sipping it with a soft sigh of contentment. When his companion passed him the Styrofoam container of burger and fries, he raised his eyes to meet the other's, a sweet smile of gratitude on his face.

Sam sat watching as Dean ate, a frown on his face.

"Do you know me?" he asked, finally. The mute – caught in the act of taking a bite from his burger - lowered his hands and ducked his head in acknowledgement. He didn't know who this was, but he'd seen the face in his mind ever since he'd awakened in the hospital that first time, and he knew in some part of himself that this man and he were linked.

"I'm Sam; I'm your brother." There was strain in Sam's voice, and the mute realized that he was somehow the cause of it. He lifted his hand to his chest and arched his brows in inquiry. "Dean – your name is Dean. Don't you remember?"

A shake of the head, a look that conveyed infinite regret, and the mute returned to his food, swiftly demolishing the remains of it and settling back against the headboard with a wince as his back came into contact with the cool wood.

"Let me look at you." Sam set his own empty food carton aside and went to sit on the edge of his brother's bed. "I got some ointment. It might help."

It was clear that the mute recognized the concern in Sam's voice. He touched Sam's cheek, smiled reassuringly and shook his head, making Sam frown. "Why don't you speak?" he asked, and his brother shrugged apologetically. He didn't know the answer, that was apparent. All he knew was that this man's name was Sam, and somehow he belonged with him.

Applying ointment and tending for Dean was no trouble. Sam would have spent far more time and energy on making his brother well, and counted it a blessing, but Dean, though still mute, was docile, allowing him access to all his hurts – save one.

He'd been raped, that was obvious, and Sam had no idea what to do to ease his brother's discomfort. He wondered if he should take Dean to a doctor, but despite his lack of voice there was no mistaking the vehemence of Dean's refusal to consider that, and Sam felt even guiltier because of it. Somehow, he knew that Dean's pain was his fault.

He grew angry at himself. From his perspective there was something he needed to do to atone. Dean's battered condition had been caused by people who frequented the bar where Sam had discovered him. He'd made a note that he should find out from Dean exactly who had hurt him, because he intended to exact summary justice from them – in fact he thought it would be a pleasure to do so.

"I suppose they didn't like it when you beat them at pool and decided to take their money back when you left," said Sam, and the mute nodded, smiling, apparently pleased to be able to tell Sam something he wanted to know. "How much did they take from you?" Sam was going to exact every last penny in skin, pain and agony, but Dean shrugged, spread his hands in a dismissive gesture and reached for his boots.

At first, Sam wasn't sure just why Dean was offering him his boots, but at his brother's insistence he took them from him and blinked, astonished. They contained money – sheaves of stacked banknotes in various denominations, and when he counted it, wide eyed, he found that there was almost a thousand dollars.

"Oh, man! They didn't find it! That's why they roughed you up so badly!" Dean's cocky smile and graphic gesture were the closest he'd come to looking like the real Dean that Sam had yet seen, and it brought a lump to his throat.

"Ah, God, Dean, this is all my fault," he whispered. "I'm so sorry." Sam reached for his brother, pulling him close and closing his eyes against the threatened tears that pricked the back of his eyes,

The mute lay in Sam's embrace for a moment, quiet as he was held and then as Sam started to pull away he lifted his hand to lay it against Sam's cheek, studying his eyes earnestly. Sam froze, frowning. There was something in his brother's eyes, some flicker, dark and heated, that took his breath away. He gazed into Dean's eyes, his own pupils blown wide, and didn't move when Dean moved forward to press his mouth against Sam's, his eyes drifting shut, the better to savor the taste.

Sam gasped. He'd fought against reawakening his old attraction to Dean, remembering only too well the things his father had said to him the night he'd finally made up his mind to leave for Stanford and knowing that they were still true. He'd tried so hard to rid himself of his craving for Dean, and now it had all surged back to him, causing the warm flood of lust to pool in his belly, tightening things low down inside him and sending shivery sparks through his groin.

He couldn't let go of Dean, not when he was this close, hand at his cheek, thumb slowly caressing his face, while the kiss went on and on, mouth softer than he remembered, tongue sliding shyly against his own. He moaned, mind spinning madly as he rationalized his behavior. He could have this – this one kiss. Dean wouldn't remember, and he'd be able to store the memory away against the lonely days he knew would come once his brother regained his senses and realized just exactly what a waste of skin Sam was.

When at last the kiss came to an end and their lips parted, Sam felt shaky, his limbs light and shivery. Dean was smiling at him expectantly, one fine eyebrow raised in inquiry.

"We can't do this," he murmured, voice faltering, and Dean's mouth quirked in a lopsided smile, before he shook his head and reached - with both hands this time – to cup the back of Sam's head, fingers sliding through his shock of tousled hair to pull him inexorably forward.

Faced with the pressure of Dean's grip, the intensity of his own need, and that which he could see etched on his brother's face, all that Sam could do was give in. Heart pounding, he allowed the caress and felt tears start to his eyes, burning as they soaked his cheeks and ran down to drip onto his shirt.

He didn't know where he could touch Dean without hurting him, wasn't sure just how much Dean wanted from him, but then Dean pressed against him, turned him against his body so that Sam could feel the tight press of his brother's erection against the thin boxers he was wearing, and he felt the answering surge in his own cock as Dean's body came down against his.

It didn't matter if Dean remembered anything or not, he was insistent, as forceful and needy as if he hadn't lost anything at all, and Sam had to go with it, couldn't stop, his own desperate need the only thing remaining of his own thought processes.

They kissed forever. As Sam gave in and let his need carry him away, desire took over, long slow explorations of each other's mouths, charting each available surface and each slick tissue with tongue and lip. Sam felt as though each kiss cut away a part of the defenses he'd painstakingly built up against Dean until at last he lay, no longer capable of anything but holding tight to his brother's body, hands sliding, carelessly now, over the cuts and bruises, while Dean slowly took possession of him, claimed him and made him forget every resolution he'd ever made, save only that he wanted this.

To the mute, it had seemed totally necessary that he should draw Sam in and kiss him. There was some deep instinct screaming, ‘mine,' and, ‘yes,' and, ‘now,' and he leant into the kiss, surprised at once at how simple yet how fraught with complexity this was.

As they sank into each other a spark was kindled somewhere inside his clouded mind. He almost knew who and what he was, and as Sam drew away from him he reached, desperate to open up that little chink in his memory, sensing somehow that he could find himself again, if Sam would only let him.

When Sam melted beneath him, he moaned, hearing the sound of his own, disused voice with something like astonishment after all these weeks of silence. He redoubled his efforts to possess Sam, fingers fumbling to part buttons, unfasten zippers and expose bare, tantalizing flesh to his hand.

Sam was completely undone, his memory filled with Dean – his Dean – the way they had been until their father had made it necessary for him to leave. His fingertips mapped out the curve of Dean's shoulder, the swell of his buttocks, lingered in the dimple at the base of his spine where the cleft between his cheeks began. They drifted over his hip bone to fumble down, to find and capture his brother's steadily leaking cock. He drew in a sharp breath, waiting somehow for his father to call, alerted by some weird etheric vibe to the fact that Sam had broken his word and was even now dragging his brother back into sin.

Nothing happened except that Dean moaned again - voice a little stronger this time - tried to speak, made an experimental, ‘ssss...' between his teeth as if trying to say Sam's name, and that was it for Sam. He was no longer fighting. All the love, all the need and desire that had built in him for the past five years was suddenly out there. Sam rubbed his thumb across the tip of Dean's cock, brought sticky fingers to his lips to paint them, lick them clean and offer himself to Dean all over again.

Dean seemed to understand, seemed to know instinctively what Sam wanted. He crushed their lips together, reached between them to gather both their cocks and stroke, his sure hand drawing skeins of silken pleasure through them until Sam felt his balls tighten and could no longer do anything but shudder out his bliss, cock spitting sticky white pulses of liquid that mingled with Dean's.

Watching his brother come, teeth sunk deep into his lush lower lip, eyes black and unfocused as he panted out his orgasm, Sam couldn't stop himself from murmuring, "God, Dean, I missed you so much. Don't ever leave me again. I couldn't bear to lose you now."

There was a gasp, a pause. Afterwards, Sam swore that he could see the thoughts and ideas tumbling back into place behind Dean's eyes. A spark of recognition, the curve of lip into a smile of delight such as Sam couldn't ever recall having seen before on Dean's face, and then Dean spoke.

"Sammy, oh, God, Sammy."

"I keep on telling you, dude, it's Sam."

Laughing, Dean hugged Sam close, pressing him willy-nilly against his bruises, and together at last the two brothers slept.

The bar was crowded with regulars when the brothers Winchester hit the joint. There was a sudden lull in the chatter which picked up almost immediately as they shouldered their way through to the bar.

Dean's bruises were fading now, but there was still evidence of abuse on his face as he ordered a couple of beers and turned to survey the room, passing a bottle to his brother as he did so.

"Got your voice back, I see." A thick-set man in a T-shirt that proudly proclaimed, ‘Truck You!' and a pair of greasy jeans that rode low under his belly smirked at Dean, and Dean smiled back at him. His body was poised, tense enough that Sam tensed with him, realizing that they wouldn't have to look any further for Dean's aggressors.

"Looks that way, dude." Dean's smile was pure silk, his gaze tender as he answered. Lifting his bottle to his lips, he sipped, managing somehow to convey a world of unspoken insolence as he drank.

"This the boyfriend, then?" Another man, this one almost as tall as Sam, but florid faced with a huge paunch, had arrived at the first man's shoulder and stood leering at Dean. "Maybe you came back, because you loved us, yeah, boy? Perhaps the boyfriend wants to play too? Does the boyfriend know that you cheat, huh? Does he know that you can move those balls around with some kind of magnetic thing?"

"Oh, bring it on!" Sam leant back against the bar, feeling the press of the revolver he had tucked into the back of his jeans and wondering if he'd end up using it tonight. He didn't think it would take much to persuade him, if the two who were in Dean's face continued with their attack. What they were talking about, he had no idea, but he knew Dean didn't need to cheat.

"I believe you gentlemen owe me a return bout." Dean's voice had the silky purr of suppressed violence in it, and Sam felt a tug of arousal at that thought.

"Now why don't you and your little friend here step outside? We'll be happy to help you out, boy." The taller man jerked his chin toward the door and then spat, narrowly missing Sam's boot.

"After you, gentlemen." Dean's gesture was courtly, and the two snickering thugs turned as one to head for the door, passing through and turning as one to jump the brothers as they emerged.

Sam erupted from the doorway, fists flying, with Dean close behind him. Without the pool cues they'd used on Dean to such devastating effect, it wasn't long before the two thugs had been soundly beaten and were left to support each other back into the bar as the two Winchesters sauntered back to their car, dusting their hands.

"Did you cheat?" Sam was frowning as he asked the question. "Doesn't seem likely, but I figured I'd ask."

"Sorta," confessed Dean, smirking. "I can make those balls go wherever I want them to, Sammy. It's a gift, like your spoon bending."

Sam's face ran through a number of emotions, ending up with a grin that virtually split his face in half. "Damn it, bro! You're special too."

"You got that right, dude," came the smug reply.

The rest of the journey back to their motel was done in silence, each of the brothers busy with their own thoughts. Sam was slow to emerge from the car, and when he finally entered their room the two of them stood facing each other, suddenly constrained. Dean was the first to speak, his voice low as he cleared his throat.

"Sammy, I need to..." His voice hitched, caught and then trailed away, his eyes raw with the words he was afraid to speak.

Sam's eyes filled with compassion. It had come back to this, and he understood, knew exactly what he needed to say, but he knew too that what Dean wanted was impossible.

"It's okay, Dean. I got your back," he murmured, reaching to touch Dean's cheek. He'd meant the caress to be a swift and subtle reminder of affection, but Dean's hand lifted to capture his, pressing it into his face, turning until his lips were against the palm.

"You won't leave?" There it was at last – the question that had begun this.

"I don't think I can any more – not now." Sam sounded less than happy, and Dean let go of his hand, reached to take Sam's shoulders, his eyebrows asking the question he didn't dare to voice.

"I love you, Dean; I've always loved you, but Dad... Dad didn't want us... as close as we were." And there it was, Sam's secret out at last. He waited for Dean to make the connection. Sure enough, the fingers dug into his shoulders as Dean stiffened.

"Wait a minute! You telling me that Dad has something to do with..."

"With my leaving? Yes." Now the truth was out, and Sam braced himself for the storm he thought would follow. "He knew we were lovers. He was sure I'd seduced you. When I started to give it some thought, I realized that I probably had."

"The hell you did!" Dean shook Sam, fingers still biting deep into his shoulders, and Sam smiled at the outrage on his brother's face, his heart thumping painfully with the knowledge that he was loved enough. "I'm quite capable of deciding what I want for myself," gritted Dean through clenched teeth.

"He thought it would be best if you... if you had a chance to find out what life was like without me." Sam stepped in, laid his cheek on Dean's shoulder and pressed his lips to the base of his brother's throat, inhaling the scent that was uniquely Dean with a little groan of satisfaction. "He wanted you to have the chance of a home, a family. I was in the way, he said, and sooner or later the fact that you always needed to protect me would kill you. I agreed with him, so I left."

Dean listened silently, his eyes glossy with unshed tears, his face tinged pink as emotions flickered across his unguarded features. He gave a shuddering sigh and then buried his fingers in Sam's hair, twined them tight and turned Sam's face so that he could kiss him, claiming him with lips, teeth and tongue, delving into the depths of Sam's mouth as he growled deep in his throat.

Backed up until his calves struck the bed, Sam had nowhere to go but down, and he felt the sting as Dean's teeth cut into his lip, turning their kiss bright with the coppery tang of his blood.

"I should've had a choice," growled Dean. "I know what I want. I've always known. I choose you." He buried his face in the angle of Sam's neck and shoulder, savage kisses making a cluster of bloody marks, and with each fresh assault, Dean growled, "Mine!"

Clothing was scattered in a wild flurry of grasping hands and flying buttons. It seemed as if each of them needed to touch as much of the other as possible, and Sam wrapped himself around Dean, arms wound tightly around his brother's neck as they kissed – legs hooked over Dean's hips to press him close.

"It's been a long time," he mumbled when he could bear to pull back from Dean's lips sufficiently to speak. His moving mouth grazed Dean's and brought a groan from his brother that was followed by a frenzy of sucking kisses that covered his face.

"Mine," growled Dean again, reaching down between them to take hold of Sam, stroke once and then fumble lower, caressing his ball sac, feeling it tighten under his fingers. All at once, Dean slid down, tongue working against Sam's tingling skin as he traced the line down between his brother's pecs, over the flat stomach and lower, until Sam's cock butted against his rough chin, making him chuckle as Sam winced, then gasped as he whispered obscenities.

Feeling the heat from Dean's mouth engulfing his cock made him convulse, cry out as Dean took him deep, sucked him hard and sloppy, slick moisture leaking from the corners of his mouth to trickle into the hair at the base of his dick. When Dean slid still lower, laving his balls, and then lower still to breach his brother's sensitive opening with his tongue, Sam knew what he wanted, what he'd always wanted, and what he would have from Dean.

"Oh, yeah," he moaned. "Do that. I need you right there, Dean. Don't stop."

Dean's grunt was that of a man who felt totally secure in his ownership. His tongue pressed into Sam, and Sam fumbled for something – anything – that would work as slick to ease Dean's way.

"There's body lotion in the bathroom," he panted, and was rewarded with another grunt as Dean rose to his feet and went obediently to find it. Dean had always been a generous lover - even if once a tryst was over he forgot his partner and moved on. Now, watching Dean head for the bathroom, erection bobbing before him, he felt a sudden rush of affection for his adored big brother, who would do anything for him, even leave his bed to find lube.

"Sammy? You're sure?" Dean had returned bearing the small bottle of complimentary lotion, and sat down beside his brother, who still lay spread out, knees up and parted sluttishly, cock standing proud as he waited.

"Oh, God, yes," whispered Sam, for once not rising to the argument about his name. "Never more certain than now."

Dean smiled down at him, tender triumph in his eyes as he uncapped the bottle and started to get Sam ready to take him.

It had been five years. Sam knew he was tight, and he tried his best to relax as Dean worked to stretch him, relishing the burn that always started this invasion of his body, greeting it like a long lost friend.

When Dean found his sweet spot and began to stroke his fingers against it, the burn dissolved, flickered into dull, sweet, aching pleasure, and Sam found himself biting his lip against the sheer sweetness of it.

"Now, Dean! Now! I'm ready for you."

Nodding, Dean hooked Sam's legs over his shoulders, moved into position and centered his cock against Sam's opening, hissing out his satisfaction as he pressed home.

Sam cried out, then gasped. Dean was now deep inside him, where he belonged – where he always should have been. He could feel Dean's fingers bite into the skin of his hips as he began to move, and he couldn't stay silent, had to babble out, "Fuck!" and, "Oh, my God, yes," and, "I want!"

It was never going to last for long – each man had way too much need invested, and soon Dean was plunging in and out of Sam while his hand worked his brother's cock, keeping the rhythm as it accelerated until it was out of control.

Sam was the first to go, wild strings of loving profanity accompanying his release as he spasmed under Dean's hand, sending his spunk flying to spatter against his chest, his belly and Dean's fingers. His body clasped Dean, the orgasm rippling around his brother's cock squeezing him until Dean arched his back, teeth centered in his lower lip and body straining in his effort to flood Sam's insides, fill his gut with a loving libation.

When they were finally at rest, bodies still at last, Dean pulled Sam close to his sticky belly, grinning as they attempted to get their breathing back under control. Sam kissed Dean gently, passion for the moment quieted. "I won't leave you," he whispered, giving Dean the one gift that he had of his own.

"I love you, Sammy," rasped Dean, lips still pressing against lips.

"And Jesus!" growled Sam. "I'm telling you for the last time, the name's Sam."

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